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Dancing in the kitchen

October 21, 2015
couple dancing in the kitchen

I’ll ask you to tie my shoes when my arms are full of something I’m working and I risk the trip. Imagine my project flying across the room, stuff going everywhere.

You ask me to attend your birth for the same reasons.

After my shoe is tied, you get back to what you were doing.

Men (attending a birth) need some shoes to tie.  They need some things to do.

In the kitchen cooking: the space is small.  The plates cover the counter.  You hips cover a third.  We dance around with ladles and spoons, stirring things up.  The timers ding when the ovens done, and the loaf is coming out, with the smells  confirming.  Dancing in the kitchen, how romantic.

Men at birth are often a hand wandering around without a pot to tend.

Give us an apron.

Dinner is fine except when at the sports bar, where your lovely form is replaced with a flat screen, and some racing athletes competing for a easily forgotten trophy.  We need to find tables surrounded by beauty and not talking heads.

Men need the TV off when sitting birth, otherwise why should they be in the same room.  They should go out and smoke big bulging cigars, and drink gin, pulling up their suspenders and snapping them in anticipation of their children’s arrival.

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