Before I became a mom, before I met my partner, I had an idea of the perfect dad.

My husband is nothing like I imagined.

Thinking forward to a hypothetical pregnancy, I pictured a partner who would excitedly make lists of names with me, who would debate the merits of a Max over a Logan. I thought perhaps I would get the final decision — that as our baby was handed over to me, he’d look lovingly into my eyes and say, “You choose.” I did not imagine that my husband would veto each and every name I suggested and would ultimately claim that his favored choice of name was “Trucker.” Thankfully, I too had veto powers.

During delivery, I assumed my future husband would spend his time rubbing my feet and fetching me snacks. I never thought that when I got up to try to walk off a contraction, he would jump into my hospital bed to test it out.

I figured that when I started breastfeeding, my perfect man would have read all the books (or at least paid attention in our pregnancy class) about latching and holding positions and would be beside me to feed me nuts and keep me calm and hydrated. I probably didn’t know that hand pumps existed, but if I had known, I wouldn’t have imagined that my husband would march around the house with one, pretending it was a trombone.

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Certainly I thought that, since I’d worked with kids and nannied through college, my partner would defer to me when it came to changing or bathing or, well, everything. I did not expect to be told, “He’s my kid,” in answer to my list of instructions when I first attempted to leave the house, and for my list to be resolutely and defiantly ignored.

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My dream man was able to change diapers with deft speed and skill. I didn’t imagine a man who would get so caught up in making his son laugh mid diaper change that he’d take too long and get peed on.

Bedtime routines should be calm. Everyone knows this. For sure I thought my child’s father would know this. Never would I have thought that bedtime would actually be the time when laughter pealed through the house — when grown men got peed on and children got launched across rooms into soft cushions in a game christened “couch boost.”

I imagined our weekends would be spent with leisurely walks around farmers markets or trips to the park. Mountains did not figure in my imaginings — not before and certainly not after having children. I did not believe it possible that I would find myself sitting on a log halfway up a mountain, nursing an infant while my husband consulted a map and adjusted the backpack carrier.

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The domestic bliss of my imaginings does not, cannot, compare to our reality. I am not the parenting oracle to whom my husband defers, nor do I want to be (most of the time). He never read the books and has not once fed me superfoods while rubbing my feet. But laughter helped me see to the end of a contraction; it helped me break through the desperate tunnel vision I had about breastfeeding and realize that the world would not crumble if my milk never came in. The giggles that break out at bedtime might slow down the process, but they often lift our day out from the mundane routine and toward something spectacular. And while I may never relish the agony of scaling a 4,000-foot mountain, I love that our son gets to see those views.

Our reality is messier and less sure of itself than I’d imagined. There are far fewer almonds. But I think perhaps I’d imagined a servant, and what I got instead was a partner. And our son got a father. A playmate. A dad.

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