It is bound to happen, guys. Your wife just spent multiple months with a growing baby inside of her. She was limited in what she could eat. She went shopping less because she got so tired walking around the mall. She did not get to go dancing. She was unable to wear many of her favorite clothes because, well, they did not fit. And now, after months of sacrifice, she is going to want some “me” time.

It is only fair, after all. I owe her, after all. YOU owe her, in some way. Why did I (ok, fine, I still do owe her…)? It’s a bit gross. You see, I cannot be around people who are vomiting. Remember the movie “The Replacements”? “I can’t be around people puking or I start puking!” That is me to the letter. And there is nothing I hate more in life than vomiting. If I blow chow, I will be nauseous for at least a week just from the memory of it. So, when the ‘morning’ (it was all day and all night for my wife) sickness was going on, I was not the considerate husband who holds the wife’s hair and comforts her; I was the sorry SOB who called up friends and arranged a poker game—at their house, far away from Pukenstein’s Monster.

So now the baby is here, the wife is capable of walking again after the birth experience (an amazing occurrence in and of itself, walking again after that), and she wants some time to do girl stuff with her newfound freedom. And try as you might, you cannot think of a single good rationale to deny this very reasonable request from your better half. So you suck it up and say in your most cavalier way, “Sweetheart, I have everything under control! Go enjoy yourself!” You get better at saying the phrase each time, and you regret it more and more each time she accepts.

When everything is driving you nuts, you don’t admit it. You absolutely refuse to dial her cell phone number and ask for help. After all, you can’t possibly admit that you were defeated by children, can you? I couldn’t, anyway. So you suffer through, and pray the older children do not repeat some of the choice words that slip out of your mouth at a later time.

What are some of the hazards you will see? Toxic waste, for one. Come on, admit it, you sneaked a sample of your wife’s breast milk. The stuff is sweet, creamy, and just exactly delicious enough to make you feel kinda creepy for enjoying it. How in the name of all that is good in life does a child’s digestive system transmute sweet, creamy breast milk into a substance that could be marketed to the Department of Defense? And no matter how strong your lungs are, no matter how much you practice, you CAN NOT hold your breath through an entire diaper change, at least not if you actually plan to get the kid’s butt clean, anyway. That stuff clings to skin like tar.

The next problem that I had to deal with in taking care of the newborn was the older kids. They scream, they beg, they demand attention, and since you are focused on the new addition, all those requests just add to stress. Believe me, visions of children wrapped head to foot in duct tape will dance through your head.

Next on my list was the pets. I love animals (maybe that is why I have four kids), so we had several pets in the house. Guaranteed, the dog will need a walk when there is simply no way you can give it one. And that will lead to another stinky mess to clean up. I promise.

Then, in the midst of all the chaos in your life, the next door neighbor will show up. It seems someone in their family is in the hospital, and they simply have to call in the babysitting favor you owe them. You politely point out that the wife is not home, and could they please re-schedule their loved one’s near death experience for a more convenient time. They refuse, less politely than you asked. So now, instead of the three kids you signed on to watch, you are dealing with six. Where was that shrink’s number again? You promise yourself, your God, and everyone else, that if that shrink can just help you calm down for 15 minutes, you will never call him a quack again, not even in private.

The kids, yours and your neighbor’s, run amok for hours. When you reach the point where you can visibly see your hair turning white at a rate of 1 inch per minute, the phone rings. “Hey, Babe,” says your wife’s relaxed and carefree voice. “I just ran into {insert random hater friend’s name here} and she invited me to lunch. But if you need me at home, I will take a rain check. What do you think?”

You quickly assure her it is fine, trying to get her off the phone before she gets wind of how badly you are frazzled. She is with one of her hater friends, after all, and you can’t let it get around to the whole crowd that you were falling apart at the seams.

A couple hours later, the older children you are caring for finally tire themselves out and crash, hard. The infants then do what infants sometimes do with the sudden onset of peace and quiet—they crash, hard. The neighbors show up and retrieve their kids, with a story about how the family member in the hospital is a drama queen, and they never needed to go in the first place. “Well, any time you need me, I’m here,” you say, just to observe social forms.

You cross your fingers behind your back as they leave.

You finally sit down on the couch and turn on the TV, with the volume very low so as not to wake the beasts. Your wife breezes through the door, sees you on the couch, and proceeds to get on your case about the clutter left by the kids. She then, uh, graciously (from her viewpoint) decides to just let that go, but insists you turn off the TV and come to the bedroom to see all the great things she bought. After feigning interest for a while, you hear words that will haunt your dreams.

“You know, Babe, you really did a great job taking care of the kids today. Knowing you are so good at it, I think I will feel more comfortable going out more often.” You say you need to take a shower because you want to take her out to dinner; the water running down your face will hide your tears.