In the operating room, I was pretty scared, going into the surgery, even though I knew it was totally routine -- it helped so much, having him there. In the mother-and-baby recovery room, he was there whenever I needed him, even coming back to the hospital one evening when we'd decided in advance that it made more sense for him to spend the evening and night at home, getting some solid rest -- I called him, burst into tears, and within a few minutes, he was in the car headed back to the hospital, just to keep me company (and support me with the whole breastfeeding stress).
Since coming home, he's been doing everything he can to take care of Kavya -- he can't breastfeed or pump, but he's changed more diapers than I have, and washed out many bottles and pump parts, and carried things up and down stairs for me over and over and over again, even when I forget things I wanted several times in a row. All without a word of complaint. And he's calmed me down when I'm freaking out, when the hormones hit (usually around 8 p.m. or so) and I start crying for no good reason. (I am super-weepy-girl these days, but thankfully, it usually doesn't last long.) He's indulged me with tasty treats, with whatever I want for dinner, with occasional internet or garden shopping splurges that are not quite within our previously-agreed-upon budget. He's just taken such good care of both of us.
I think of my father, who despite being a great dad and a great husband grew up in a time where the man's job was to provide the income -- he's never changed one of his daughters' diapers. That's when I realize how lucky I am.
Sometimes, when I look at Kevin holding our daughter, both of them fast asleep, I just want to cry. Blame the hormones.