It was 2:04 a.m. when our daughter, Rosie, let out a wail that shook the house. This wasn’t a little whimper—it was full-on diaper disaster mode. I’d already been up three times that night, running on empty from juggling deadlines and mom duties. My body ached, my mind was mush. I nudged my husband, Cole, and whispered, “Can you take this one? I’ll grab a fresh outfit and the wipes.”
He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. “You handle it,” he mumbled. “I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow.” I paused, halfway out of bed. “Cole, it’s bad. I need backup.” That’s when he said it—calmly, confidently, like it was a fact:
“Diaper duty isn’t for men. Just deal with it.”
