They’ll always have one-up on us, guys. Always.

They carried a human being in their stomach for nine months. Nine whole months. We eat a big burrito and complain about having pain for nine hours.

Let’s face it . . . God decided to give the stronger of his two creations the burden and ability to conceive children. I’m sure he looked at Adam and then Eve and then looked back at Adam and shook his head.

            As men, we will always sit on the sidelines.

            As men, we will always watch and wonder and have no freaking clue. Seriously.

            As men, there will be this deep-seated, pulsating fear inside of us beating like
an irregular heart when it comes to having children. Because we start afraid
and clueless and then we gradually get used to burying the fear and the
ignorance.

             We like to control things, but this whole arena is way out of our control.

            We like to fix things, but there’s no fixing any of this.

            We’re the hunter-gatherer-Alpha He-mans who go collect wood to burn and animals to
cook and . . . Okay, well, maybe that’s a bit overdone. But still. We have a
makeup that’s not prepared for this—this tiny, crying thing.

            Holding it might break it.

            Shaking it might hurt it.

            Living with it might wreck us.

            We don’t know. Be honest, guys. We don’t. We hear that first cry and then we
think, oh dear Lord please help me now. Our beautiful, beloved bride has suddenly become all about something else. She’s
waged a war and come out on the other side and we’re standing there simply
watching, wondering what’s going to happen next.

            “She looks beautiful,” some strange lady tells you as she hands you this wailing
little thing that can’t possibly belong to you.

            You see the glow from your wife. It’s not some warm sort of glow. No. It’s the
color of the sky after a volcanic eruption. It’s the expression of an astronaut
finally orbiting the earth, staring down at it with some exquisite sort of joy.
It’s the feeling you find after watching a Pixar film for the first time.

            Thank God you can’t see your expression. Surely there’s this look of bewilderment and
cluelessness and deliriousness filling all four corners of your face. The
nurses already know this look. Your wife will recognize it. It’s the face every
man will eventually mirror.

            It’s the reason we don’t have to do this thing on our own. It’s the reason we have
someone better and stronger to help us.

            I believe this with every fiber of my soul: when God created Eve, he made a 2.0
version of Adam. Better, stronger, more attractive, with more memory and faster
capabilities. Compare women with men. There’s no comparison. There isn’t.

            Now, yes, I might already be waving the white flag being the only male in a
household of five females. And yes, the fact that I’m counting our female Shih
Tzu as one of them might already show that I’ve laid down and given up my
man-card for the rest of my life.

            But . . .

            Guys, let’s face it. We have it easy.

            Women have to deal with us. Then one day,
they will have to spend nine months with this thing all because of us. Then they really are the ones
responsible. Oh, yes, these days, it’s all about teamwork. Don’t think I don’t
know. I was there in the middle of the night holding our girls. I did every
single thing I could. Really. But women—MOMMYS—they always have to do a little
more.

            I think they do a lot more.

            I’ve been on the sidelines watching our three daughters. Our eldest is eight while
the twins are four. They are beautiful, brilliant, and utterly baffling. I see
myself in them, and then I shudder at the thought. Their impatience, their
insanity, their moodswings, their love.

            I’m biased, I know. But girls really are better. 2.0. I’m telling you. God said “It
is good” with Adam and then I believe he said “It is better” with Eve.

            But with better comes complications. I believe this, too.

            I know I don’t give my own mother the respect she deserves. I don’t acknowledge
my wife as much as I should. I simply don’t understand what it really means to
be a mother.

            Maybe, potentially, we have three mothers-to-be running around in our house. What an
amazing and breath-taking thought.

            I hope that I can be a cheerleader for them. I hope they can grow up knowing the
love and the joy a man might feel. I hope they see things in a more colorful light
after being around me. I hope that they can acquire a few good things from me
over the years.

            I really hope I can just keep up.

            It’s Mother’s Day. We buy cards with statements other people wrote. Perhaps we give
the mothers in our life flowers or gift cards or framed photographs.

            But there’s nothing—nothing—we can
ultimately do to express the gratitude we really should have.

            That’s okay, however. Because mothers are used to this. ‘Cause—well—you know . . .
They’re just Mom. Supposed to do this. There for that. Handling this thing.
Dealing with that.

            All of us are lucky to have mothers in our life. The older I get, the more I
realize just how incredible a mommy really happens to be.

            So to the mommy in our house, and to the mommys in my life, I say thank you.

            To all the mommys out there—if you’re reading this, I want to thank you, too.

            You might be beautiful and you might be talented and you might be good with numbers
and you might be wonderful with the keys of a piano. But none of that compares
to the beauty and talent and ability of being a mother.

            You rock. You really do.

            I say this now, but sooner than later I’ll act like a guy again, acting like I’m
the stronger being, like I know more, like I work harder, like I’m just so dang
superior.

            But deep down, all guys know. We do. We’ve been spared. We have the easier lot in
life and we always will.

            Doesn’t mean we can’t love and support and celebrate those mothers in our life.

            Today I’m trying to do that. I’m starting with what I do best—writing a few rambling
thoughts down. The true test will be during the meltdowns and the rebellion
this day will bring. And, oh yes, it will bring some.

            I hope I won’t be so very Adam-esque. But it’s my nature. I can just try to be a
little better.

            I can also try to remember to celebrate all day long.

            Viva La Madres.