At nine months pregnant, every day feels like a marathon—and all I wanted was to get the nursery ready before our daughter arrived. One task stood in the way: the crib. Just a simple crib. But each time I asked my husband, Tom, to put it together, he gave the same response: “I’ll get to it tomorrow.”
But tomorrow never came.
One afternoon, fed up and feeling more alone than ever, I hauled the box into the nursery myself. It was heavier than I expected. The instructions were baffling, the bolts were tiny and slippery, and every twist and bend in my back sent sharp, unwelcome reminders that I was doing this at full term. Tom sat on the couch a few feet away, glued to his phone. His only contribution? A nonchalant, “You didn’t have to do that,” when he finally looked up.
When I finally tightened the last screw, I was drenched in sweat. My hands ached, and my heart hurt even more. Because it wasn’t about the crib anymore. It was the realization that I couldn’t count on my husband when I needed him most. And that cut deeper than any muscle strain.
I sat there staring at the finished crib—not proud, not angry. Just tired. And done waiting for something to change on its own.
So I did something bold.
I told Tom he’d be in charge of the baby shower.
Everything.
The planning, the food, the setup, the decorations—the works. If he wanted to be a dad, I needed him to step up like one.
The day arrived, and it was pure chaos. He forgot plates, undercooked the appetizers, and had a meltdown trying to hang streamers while guests arrived early. Watching him stumble through it all was painful—but also oddly satisfying. For once, he was in my shoes.
That night, after everyone left and the dishes piled high, I didn’t sugarcoat it. I told him, calmly but clearly, that what he felt today? That was just a taste of the pressure I’d been carrying—alone. That being a dad, a husband, a partner, means showing up. Not watching from the sidelines.
And for the first time, he didn’t get defensive. He didn’t roll his eyes or change the subject. He just sat there, humbled, and apologized. A real apology. No excuses. No “but I was busy.” Just, “I’m sorry. I get it now.”
I don’t know what the future holds. But that night, something shifted. I saw a man willing to try—really try. And I decided to give him that chance.
Because parenting isn’t a one-person job. It’s a team effort. And while I may have built the crib alone, I don’t plan to raise our daughter that way.
