He was there, too.

 

It was on our daughter’s six week birthday when my husband blithely uttered the words, “When we were pregnant…” I turned to look at him incredulously.  He, the man I married, could certainly not be so insensitive and frankly, idiotic sounding. I wanted to punch him in the face.

 

“What, I can’t say that?”

 

I thought my eye roll was enough, or at least the full shiver of revulsion coursing through my body. My physical laments, however, were immediately joined by a chorus of outrage from our female friends.

 

“When you were pregnant?!?!??! When exactly was that?” one friend shouted out.

 

“Next you’ll be saying ‘When you gave birth’!” the other cried.

 

And of the course the ubiquitous, “Did you push a watermelon through your vagina?”

 

His face sunk a little, but he held his chin up high. “I was there, too.” He said. “I just want a little recognition.”

 

They laughed. Loudly and a little cruelly.  And I joined in. But lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about how partners should be treated during pregnancy, labor and the marathon of suffering and joy that is the early newborn stage. A part of me can’t help but wonder if his treatment is distinctly due to his gender.  

 

Let me first say that I agree his first statement is ridiculous. No matter how involved he was in the pregnancy, WE were not pregnant. I did not have a difficult pregnancy, but I was not one of those women who “glowed”. As much as I would have loved to share the burden of carrying 50 extra pounds, of constant heartburn, of unrelenting fatigue or indeed of any of the other hosts of ailments accompanying growing a tiny human, the fact remains that it was my cross to bear.

 

But that’s not to say he didn’t play a role in my pregnancy. He was there, too.  And as a society, we don’t really have a term to recognize his role, or the role countless partners play in the build up to birth. We should recognize that role.

 

I didn’t really give two shits about my husband while I was pregnant. Let’s be real. I made it about me, because, well it was about me. I cried as I lost control over my body; when my thighs began clapping together; and when I peed myself walking home from work. I cried as I lost control over my feelings I cried as I lost control over my life, probably over-lamenting a missed half-marathon I’d been training for, sobbing over a cancelled trip home for the holidays. Okay, I realize I’m doing it again.

 

The point is, through all of that, he was there, too. He held me when I cried. He rubbed cream on my feet. He bought ice-cream. He drew baths. He cooked well-done eggs for me and made sure he cleared the kitchen of any offensive odors. He cleaned the kitty litter fastidiously. He was aware of what I was going through at each stage of the pregnancy, reading up on the baby’s development and my corresponding ailments.  He helped me up the stairs every night and hoisted me out of bed in my last trimester. He didn’t miss a doctor’s appointment. He decorated the nursery, putting up sticker appliqué elephants with grit and determination. While he wasn’t pregnant, he was still preparing for a baby. He was there, too.

 

My labor lasted 3 days. During that time, my husband never left my side. He slept in chairs and on the floor, in fits and starts.

 

After our daughter was finally born, I texted our friends and said, “She’s here! 6.9lbs. Mommy, baby and daddy are doing well.”

 

I received text that said, “LOL, no one cares if Daddy is doing well. What did he do?”

 

Of course, it was me who underwent the labor and “pushed a watermelon through my vagina.” and no, no one can know what it feels like unless it’s happened to them. But he was there, too.

 

My maternity leave is 60 days. My husband’s? 3. I don’t know how he does it. He works full time, then runs all our errands. I don’t drive and so he buys all our groceries then comes home to cook dinner and takes on the role of ‘dominant parent’ so I can have a break. Granted, his vagina isn’t recovering from 5 stitches and he’s not walking bowl-legged. Neither are his breasts chapped and raw from constant breastfeeding, but he’s still getting up at 1am, 3am, 5am, and 7 am with our little bundle of joy. On the worst nights, he’s the one driving the car to finally trick our daughter to sleep.

 

Through all this, he triumphs, and yet, largely remains unrecognized, as do many partners. Our baby shower was open to both men and women, but the majority of showers remain female-only. This is possibly the only opportunity for a concrete celebration of pregnancy and the upcoming birth, and yet men are historically excluded from it.  Throughout this newborn phase, I have received texts, calls, and emails asking me how I am coping to motherhood, how I am adjusting and how I am healing. He’s received very little in comparison.

 

At a recent event, a friend of mine asked my husband how he was adjusting to fatherhood. It was a breath of fresh air. His face lit up and he couldn’t wait to talk about how much he was enjoying his role, and yes, complain a little about the sleepless nights.  

 

I’m aware that this article might come across as a cringe faux pas a la Sophie Trudeau’s Instagram post calling to celebrate men on International Women’s Day. I’m not an idiot. I know I carried my daughter, birthed her, feed her. I’m not saying he should be praised equally, or recognized equally.

 

But I am calling for equity.

 

I am a feminist and I don’t ascribe to any of the bullshit “meninism” or “humanism”, but I can recognize how he has been mistreated in this capacity. It’s not some miracle that my husband was active in my pregnancy. He shouldn’t be exalted for running baths, buying ice cream, or co-parenting. But he shouldn’t be ridiculed either. He was there, too. Clearly, the terminology needs to be better than the vomit-inducing “when we were pregnant”, but there should be a word for the important role partners play during pregnancy. Similarly, they should be recognized for their experiences during labour and early parenthood.  

 

So my call to action is quite simple and understated: Don’t laugh at fathers. Don’t diminish their roles as co-parents and partners. Don’t ascribe outdated “idiot father” or “deadbeat dad” tropes to them. Invite them to baby showers. Congratulate them. Ask them how they sleeping.

 

They are there, too.