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Everyone seemed to be welcoming their babies that weekend, leaving us in triage for seven hours, waiting for an available bed. I had been without pain relief for forty hours, ever since my water broke at 5 am the previous day, and neither of us had slept. I felt like I was on the brink; T thought the baby was at risk (his heartbeat kept dropping to worrying levels). Finally, after over fifty hours, he was placed on my chest—small (well, not exactly that small—how did that head fit?), crying, perfect, vulnerable, ours.
From the moment I saw N, I loved him fiercely. When he was tiny and would sleep in anyone’s arms, I would feel a pang of jealousy. I wanted to be the one holding him, pressing kisses to his soft cheeks, resting my chin on his fuzzy head. I wanted his fingers curled around mine. But I restrained myself, partly to avoid becoming overly possessive, and partly because that’s what motherhood is—a kind of release. They’re entirely yours when inside, then they come out, and the world starts to shape them.
Before N arrived, we had loosely agreed that childcare would be split equally. We’re not unique in this; recent statistics show that over half of men think childcare should be shared equally, but as of 2016, fewer than 10% took more than two weeks of paternity leave. However, T, being a modern-minded, feminist, and romantic, was fully committed to sharing. He left his job to freelance, so he could be around, and my job was already home-based. The plan was to spend the first six months simply being parents, then slowly develop a balanced schedule. After a challenging delivery, I needed a long recovery, and while T was equally exhausted, he wasn’t physically compromised. So, we focused on teamwork, adapting to the shift from a two-person dynamic to a family of three. I nursed, he handled diapers; I managed laundry, he took care of sterilizing. We both rocked him to sleep and sang ’80s songs during bath time. When N switched to hypoallergenic formula due to intolerances, we truly became equal partners in feeding. The pain of stopping breastfeeding was softened by the freedom to enjoy dairy again (motherhood, always a balance of opposing emotions).
Still, there are moments of envy when I’m not the primary parent. I hadn’t expected to feel possessive, but I underestimated how our personalities would clash. T, ever relaxed, wanted a baby-led approach; I wanted structure. Eventually, we settled into a routine, with N having set meal and nap times. On my days, I’d take him out—to the farm, to playgroups, to swim class. On T’s days, they’d stay home, with T inventing games. N enjoys both approaches equally, leaving no room for “Mother Knows Best.”
We faced some raised eyebrows, mostly from older generations, when T left his job to be more involved in childcare. Concerns weren’t about financial stability but rather his potential boredom or lack of fulfillment (a concern not directed at me). T was often the only dad in baby classes, and even some nursery rhymes had to be adapted to include fathers.
Now that N is nearly ten months, we’ve found a rhythm with work and childcare shared evenly, and weekends reserved for family time. N is thriving—joyful, independent, and determined. The attention from both of us has been a gift for him, and for us too. On my workdays, I return home refreshed and ready to bond with him, while on caregiving days, I enjoy deepening our connection. T feels the same. We’re incredibly fortunate to have this balance, but it shouldn’t be a privilege. This kind of shared parenting should be accessible for all families because, ultimately, an equal partnership in parenting is ideal—if you’re willing to let go.
