Then I called Maddie, my college friend. Her three-month-old twins are adorable chaos gremlins. I just said one thing: “I need a favor.”

“Girl,” she laughed, “this is what I was born for.”

So Friday arrived. I told Doug I had a prenatal appointment and that he needed to be home for pest control and the water guys.

“Window’s 9 to 3,” I told him casually.

“Guess I’ll babysit the dishwasher,” he muttered, still smug.

At 9:15 a.m., the doorbell rang.

Doug, in pajama pants, answered to find Shannon standing there with a clipboard and a doll baby.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I’m here for your Fatherhood Simulation Day!”

Doug was still processing that sentence when Maddie arrived, juggling two wailing babies, diaper bags, and one bottle already leaking.

From the moment the door shut behind her, Doug entered baby bootcamp hell.

Seven hours later, I walked into chaos. A baby was screaming. Doug sat like a war veteran, burp cloth on his shoulder, hair sticking to his forehead. Shannon sipped tea on the rug like the goddess of calm.

Doug looked up at me with the expression of a man who had stared into the abyss—and been spit back out.

“I didn’t eat. I didn’t sit. They both pooped. One exploded on me. They took turns crying. I think one is teething. Or possessed.”

“Huh,” I said sweetly, stepping over a pacifier. “Weird. No pregnancy. Plus help. Just eight hours. I’ve been doing this on top of working.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Collapsed back onto the couch.

But I wasn’t finished.

That night, I gave him a small box. Inside? A scrapbook.

Photos of my swollen feet. Screenshots of texts to his mom, asking for advice. Grocery receipts. Notes I’d left on the fridge to wish him luck before big meetings.

At the end, a sticky note: “You think I’m lazy? I hope today showed you just how wrong you are.”

He stared at it. Then at me. Eyes red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t get it. I do now.”

And just like that, I saw a flicker of the man I married.

The next morning, he made pancakes. Real ones. Fluffy, golden, with whipped cream and strawberries.

Then he did something I didn’t expect. He called his mom.

“Hey,” he said. “I used to brag that you worked until the day I was born. I even used it against Cindy. But… I’m sorry. That must’ve been so hard.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then: “Oh honey… that’s not true. I left work four months in. Your dad and I agreed it was time to rest. I just didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

Doug blinked.

I sipped my tea. Slowly.

“Looks like you believed the wrong version of strength,” I murmured.

Since then? He’s changed. He rubs my back without being asked. Does the dishes. Books his own doctor visits. And at night, he tucks me in with the gentlest kiss on my forehead.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he whispered last night.

I didn’t say anything.

But I smiled.

Because sometimes the best way to teach someone what strength looks like… is to let them live in your shoes—poop, puke, and all.