After I warned him last night that I would be using him as the Lucy to my Ricky in this morning’s post, my husband mounted an indignant tri-part defense, starting with, “Any man who says he wants to be in the delivery room is lying.” Other attempts: “You don’t want to be in there either!” (Response: No, but if I’ve got to be, you’ve got to be.) “So you’re saying that if I were having surgery on my prostate, you’d come stand there the whole time?” (Response: If I was allowed, of course.) Steeee-rike three.
However, in his next at-bat, he swung for the fences. And to borrow a line from The Royal Tenenbaums, “Immediately after making this statement, [Bird’s husband] realized that it was true.” He looked at me, his expression softening and his tone now serious, and said, “I just don’t want to be in there, seeing you in pain, and not be able to do anything about it.”
Heart. Melts. Here.