Tom likes to wear the baby, to church, at the store, around the house, because it is the best way to keep her happy, i.e. put her to sleep. Our babies don’t like pacifiers or riding in the car (unless there’s no slowing down or stopping involved), so your soothing options are basically: a) breastfeeding, b) pacing, and c) breastfeeding. Tom is the master of the pace, except when his arms get tired and she slips into a cradle hold that promises milk he has no intention of supplying. Enter the baby carrier:
That is one fine man. All of my glands gush love hormones and let-me-squeeze-you bonding agents. Almost enough to make you want another baby, until this baby starts crying, or one of her sisters starts whining/fighting/changing her clothes yet again. Usually our division of labor on Saturdays is Tom: 3 kids, Shannon: baby. But whenever we are all together, daddy breaks out the baby bjorn (if only you could hear how Lucy says it) and everyone is happy.
Really, it’s amazing I ever get annoyed at this man . . .