Male Pattern Bonding

These guys have a real love affair going on.  So deep that it may have made me exclaim, "This breastfeeding thing is a load of crap!"  Maybe, I said that.  But the irony is not lost on me that this child, the only one born of my womb and fed mother's milk, is the only child in this family that wants nothing to do with me.  As it turns out, breasts have nothing to do with bonding.

All of my children have been crazy about Mr. Wicke, and rightly so.  I think, even a little proudly, that I have had something to do with that.  I make Dada a very big deal around these parts.  It's the first word I try to teach them, and it's always a celebration when he walks through the door.  "Dada's home!!!  Yay!!!  We love our Dada!"  Some of the best advice I got as a new mom was to help create a relationship between your children and their father.  Very wise, I believe.  But secretly?  In my heart of hearts?  I was very content knowing I was "The Mama."

I was the one that they wanted when they were scared or hurt.  I was the one to snuggle them, to kiss their boo-boos, to give them comfort.  Me.  The mom. 

Not with this one.  Nope.  Baby Lincoln is most content in Daddy's arms, and he spends a lot of time there.  A lot.  Mr. Wicke is capable of holding him even while mowing the lawn.  He carries him as comfortably as a football.  But there is something magical going on here, as well.  Something I can not explain nor comprehend. 

Like last night when the baby awoke unusually at 3:00 AM.  After only having fallen asleep an hour and a half before due to a little thing called insomnia, I begged Mr. Wicke to get up with him, to which he kindly obliged; but in the time it took for him to get the bottle and warm it up, the strenuous crying drew me to the baby's room.  Arriving only seconds after Mr. Wicke, we soon discovered the source of the trouble:  The fire alarm in the room beeped rudely signaling a need for a battery change.  (Why do they only do that at night?)  Now, because in our marriage fire alarms fall under the realm of all things Mr. Wicke, I took the baby from his arms freeing him to deal with the grating noise.  Unfortunately, the minute he left his daddy, the baby's screams only added to the cacophony.

"Baby.  You're okay.  You're just fine," I soothed in his ear, bouncing gently and kissing his cheek.

"Dada!  Dada!" he wailed.

"Dada's right there.  He's not going anywhere."

"Dada!"  He was somewhere nearing hysteria.

I've never had a child I can not soothe, but this one would not have any of it.  It wasn't until he was back in his father's arms, belly against his chest with his face snuggled into Mr. Wicke's neck that his sobbing turned to ragged breathing and finally the sniffles subsided altogether.  I, feeling quite useless, trodded back to bed. 

There, alone under the warmth of my down comforter, I had to admit, I didn't like that feeling.  Maybe I liked being numero uno more than I thought?  But isn't the job of the mother to mother?  That's my job title!  Doesn't this little one know that?  Stupid breastfeeding!  These  thoughts kept me awake until I heard the baby's door close, and I again began to hear him wail, "Dada!"

I pushed back the comforter and padded through the dark to find Mr. Wicke standing outside the baby's door, waiting to see if he would settle down.  "Go back to bed," I nudged him.  "He just wants to play with you."  I opened the door and moved to him quietly.  He continued to cry as I lifted him from his crib, his face still looking hopefully toward the door.  I pulled him close to me, and as we found our bouncing rhythm, he leaned back into my arms.  I snuggled his cheeck and his neck, whispering in his ear.  "It's okay.  Shhhh, baby.  Mama's here."  And soon he quieted.  I laid him in his crib, smoothed the blankets around him, making sure the fringe he likes to toy with until he sleeps was available, passed my palm across his brow twice and then walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.

Quiet.

As I climbed back into bed, Mr. Wicke said, "You're good at that."

An attempt to soothe my bruised mommy ego?  Perhaps, but I appreciated it enough to say, "Yeah, well, he doesn't care if I leave the room."

Mr. Wicke chortled as he laid his hand on my thigh.  As his breathing turned to soft snores, I embraced the truth.  My baby prefers him.  At least right now.  But the real truth is that I chose this man because he would be a fantastic father to my children, and I am so glad he is.  So very, very glad.

And this mama can settle for number two behind that.