Skylar went back to work last week after two months of paternity leave, which he has called "maternity" leave despite, and I think, in spite of my constant corrections.

This is a pattern in our marriage, in fact. Every time I offer a condescending and aggressive emendation to his often baffling use of the English language he doubles down and then starts finding extra reasons to say the thing that prompted my implied threats in the first place. It's all extremely healthy and productive. We should write a book.

This man did not want to go back to work. Not because he dislikes his job. Skylar, in fact, loves his job. Trust me. I've seen this man stop people on the street to recommend sunscreen brands.

On Sunday we were at a party and when a woman found out he was a dermatologist she said "oh? I've been seeing a dermatologist to treat this acne that is not getting any better" and he immediately responded, "I don't think that's acne" and then he diagnosed her on the spot with a string of words that I swear were one Latin syllable away from summoning the dead.

Side note: I have pitched the idea on every occasion in which I have had too much wine that Skylar star in a reality television program where he goes out onto the street shirtless and diagnoses strangers' medical problems. I don't care how trashy the show gets. In fact, the trashier the better because I'm pretty sure that would be good for ratings.

I've never worked in tv—just watched a shit ton of it in lieu of reading books (note: when I say I'm "reading books" I always really mean I'm watching tv)—but all I'm saying is the checks would basically write themselves. And the only thing in life that is important to me is that I become rich enough to use a different Bottega Veneta bag every day of the year.

Anyway, the man loves looking at gross stuff and then diagnosing people with diseases I thought we did away with during the Renaissance. And holy shit. I can't believe I just spelled Renaissance correctly on the first try.

Skylar didn't want to go back to work because any minute he spends away from Mr. Baby, it turns out, is psychological torture for him.

There are a lot of things I didn't expect would happen when I became a parent. For example, did you know babies are only happy if you are touching them with both hands at all times? Like, if you take a hand off of them to type an entire email using only one of your limbs, they immediately embark on a profanity-laden rebuke of you as a person. And, yes. I'm aware that my nine-week-old baby can't speak any words of any known written language at the moment. But I also know profanity when I hear it and this baby is saying profanities.

But the biggest parenting surprise so far is how much fatherhood has turned my husband into a blubbering emotional mess. I'm talking Ariana Grande on a Wicked press tour levels of triggered passion.

I walked into the nursery recently and Skylar was staring at Mr. Baby and had little tears coming out of both eyes so I asked him what was wrong and he just said "I don't want him to ever be sad."

Last night I was sitting in the living room Reading Books and knitting when Skylar suddenly walked in in half sobs. "I just realized how lucky I am that I get to see you chaperone his field trips one day."

It was the most specific hypothetical reason anyone has ever cried happy tears. I was honestly impressed.

And so, when that sweet man left for his first day of work last week you would have thought he was about to do a twelve-month stint on the International Space Station. The last thing he said as he was walking out the door was "please don't tell me if he giggles. When I hear him giggle I want to believe it's his first time."

In a "spirit of the law" sort of way I have taken to pretending each evening Mr. Baby spent his entire day in a coma like a soap opera love interest. "Honestly, I don't think he opened his eyes once," I'll tell him. "He didn't wake up until he heard your voice as you walked into the house."

"Awwww" Skylar will say. "He really loves me."

I have to confess, being a Hot Single Mom during the day has been better than I expected. I've never been a baby guy and I worried I would feel emotionally tethered in a very depressing way once I became the primary caregiver for large portions of the week. But it turns out Mr. Baby is a pretty good hang.

He listens to anything I want to say. And, look, you don't keep up a personal blog on Cher's internet for two decades because you hate a captive audience.

Also, I love reading books to the little man, whom I have started calling "Little Mansies." Where did that name come from? Picture one of those evolution charts that show how the gorilla became an accountant: Mr. Baby>Mr. Man>Little Man>Little Mans>Little Mansies. The scientific connection becomes pretty obvious if you just think about it for a second.

Oh, and I just realized I wrote that thing up there about how when I say "reading books" I really mean "watching tv" but in this case I genuinely mean I'm engrossed in infant literature with my child. I'm not having him watch tv with me. I don't even know what shows he likes and I'm scared to find out.

We have somewhere around 200,000 baby books people have given us and not all of them deserve a Pulitzer Prize, if I'm being honest, but I love each in their own way.

I like to read a book to Mr. Baby and then set it down and have a frank conversation with him about the quality of the storytelling. It's like a book club except instead of wine we're drinking formula and also most of the books we read have a word limit of twenty.

"Now, this book suffers from the same issue as the book about the carrot we read yesterday," I told him on Monday. "It lacks what we call 'a compelling story arc,' not helped by the completely absent character development. At no point did the author even attempt to explore what the snowman's motivations or desires might be so it was really difficult to feel invested when he melted into a dirty puddle."

Apart from the books, the absolute best part of raising this baby alone during Shane Company Hours is getting to strap him to myself and set off on foot running walkable errands. I like to pretend I'm a new single dad in the middle of a makeover montage while Dreams by The Cranberries plays. Or some other generic ballad of peaceful self-discovery—the song choice doesn't really matter.

I've given myself a whole backstory and everything. Sometimes I take off my wedding ring so it all feels more real.

Then I hustle home just in time to pretend to summon Mr. Baby from his fake coma as Skylar walks up the front steps to begin crying and spend the next five hours kissing our son and reading him books I already read him but Mr. Baby and I have a cone of silence agreement on this.

Last night I overheard Skylar, who was lying on the floor with Mr. Baby, reading him a biography of Dolly Parton. "Then Dolly met the love of her life," I heard him recite the words from the page before turning to look at Mr. Baby and saying "spoiler alert—we're gonna want to look out for Jolene later."

I'm not sure what, exactly, this child's life is going to look like, and I can't wait to continually discover all the ways in which we are inadequate as parents. But we've vowed to one another that no matter how much we fail at this, this little boy is at least going to be a hilarious smartass with a terrific name. And in my experience, being a hilarious smartass can get you far in life. It is, after all, how I got Skylar to marry me.

This morning I woke up and saw Skylar hovering over the bassinet just next to our bed. "Good morning Mr. Baby," he whispered. "I'm so lucky to see you today."

It was funny—I felt the same way in that moment—lucky to see Skylar greet our son. Lucky to have met him a decade ago and lucky that he made becoming parents such a priority for us. Lucky to be doing all of this, but especially lucky to be doing any of it with him.

Oh my god. I just got choked up at the thought of him helping me chaperone a school field trip one day.

~It Just Gets Stranger