My poor, poor husband. He's a real man's man. He earned a Mechanical Engineering degree from NC State. He hunts, fishes, loves cars, and is a die hard tinkerer. As my baby belles like to say (much to my husband's delight), "Daddy can fix anything!"
His technically and mechanically challenged in-laws love him as a person and certainly as the father of their only grandchildren, but the fact that Scott can program a remote control, figure out why a red light is flashing in the dashboard of a car and re-boot a computer makes the man completely indispensable. As a result, if things between me and Scott ever hit the rocks (God forbid), I can't honestly say where loyalties would fall. My flesh and blood brother even confessed to having a dream that Scott and I split up and, rather than having concern for his sister, his first thought was "Who's going to fix our stuff?" Heartwarming. Really.
Bear all of the aforementioned in mind when I tell you that Scott is the only man in our house. It all started when I got pregnant with Baby Belle 1. There was no question in my mind that we were having a boy. Scott has a large family and there are boys all over the place, so the odds just weren't in my favor. Early on in my pregnancy, I took a trip to New York City with my mom. In between morning sickness barfing sessions, we went to Saks and Barney's and Bergdorf's and all I could do was look at the beautiful little girl clothes with longing. I'm sorry, but girl clothes are so much more fun than boy clothes--you can't do but so many green frogs, brown bears and baseballs.
So, when we had our ultrasound and the technician told us that we were having a girl...well, you could have blown my paper draped, gooey gel-coated self right off the exam table. My mind immediately filled with pink and feathers and sparkles and...well, anything you would probably see on the costume rack at a drag show. Scott kept reminding me of the technician's admonition that there was always room for error on the test, but the pink kept right on pouring in. It got so insane at one point that I waddled all over Beverly Hills and Melrose at Month Seven of my pregnancy when I ostensibly went to visit my brother in California.
In fact, there were so many frills and ruffles that I had one of those legendary "Crazy Pregnancy Dreams" that our house was being attacked by fuzzy pink bunnies and Gene Simmons--in full Kiss gear--showed up to save us from the rabbit menace.
As I am sure you can probably imagine, things only got frillier when our daughter actually arrived. Scott was in love and wrapped around her little finger from the moment she was brought into the world. Even though he looked a teeny little bit incongruous amongst all of the beads, baubles and other sparkles, he bore it manfully and even learned a few Disney Princess songs and sounded darn good when he sang 'em. Bless him.
When Baby Bell 1 got older, she and her daddy tag-teamed me about getting a dog. I capitulated upon the conditions that we get a small dog (less mess) and a female (I'd read somewhere that female dogs were better with children). That's how a Chihuahua named Desdemona Muffetts Council (a/k/a "The Destroyer" and "The Ferret") came into our lives. I really don't know what in the hell I was thinking that a small dog would make less mess; she's six pounds of pure fury.
But I digress...
Then came time for Baby Belle 2. I knew without a doubt in the world that I was having a boy that time. There were just too many boy Councils in the family for the "Female Fluke" to happen twice. In addition to the certainty of the male odds, Murphy's Law itself dictated that all of the dazzle-licious frufru-ness we already had would be rendered useless by the arrival of a little dude.
When yet another ultrasound showed a second little belle on the way...wow. While joyful visions of fairy wings and tiaras immediately started dancing in my head, the extremely unhelpful ultrasound technician said, "Just think, Dad: When your wife is going into menopause, your two girls will be starting puberty!" Every last drop of color drained from my hubby's face as the reality of that assinine statement set in. I could have killed her, but death would have been too kind.
So, Baby Belle 2 made her very dramatic entrance and Scott immediately got lost in her beautiful blue eyes and the Council house became completely immersed and bedazzled in pink fluff and Barbies. Even the second animal addition to the family--a multi-breed dog named Lola--was a female. In the interest of full disclosure, we do have two frogs and I have no idea what sex they are, but they have been named Martha and Fufu, so they're girls by default.
So, boys and belles, allow me to introduce you to the epitome of a Southern Gentleman: A man who can shoot a wild turkey or shoot the breeze at a tea party. A man who can turn his daughter into a mermaid just as easily as he can fish for flounder. A man who never met something he couldn't fix, from a car engine to a pink princess microphone. A man who can walk a hot pink rhinestone collared and leopard coat clad Chihuahua and be secure in his manhood while doing it.
Just to top it all off, Scott was on a hunting trip and all of the men were commiserating about the pointlessness of arguing with their wives. Scott said, "How do you think I feel? I'm married to a lawyer!"