Crib

I am the builder in this household. I grunt, swear, and sweat from my cave of crotch-scratching masculinity. My opinion about building the crib was this: Me build crib. Snort grunt.

Well Julie is nesting big time, so she decided she would help. To which I replied: Woman no help. Woman bring snacks and beer.

Try to change a pregnant woman's mind. I agreed to let her turn the screwdriver (Righty-tighty, dear, righty-tighty) if she acknowledged that she was merely the assistant, the deputy builder, the beta-dog.

But she got all cocky when the only screwdriver I could find was the tiny blue one from the "Toolkit for Her" set. When she began to question my interpretation of the instructions, my inner caveman really came out. In my defense, back up a second and examine what was really happening here. At that moment, it was as though we were in the delivery room and she snatched the umbilical cord scissors out of my hand and severed it herself. It was like she was demanding to carve the Thanksgiving turkey.

So I fired her. Which was a mistake.

Downstairs, she was hugged, reassured, apologized to, and rehired. Then together as equals we finished the crib.