Could u imagine H mom shaming Mrs without realizing it and she’s completely over it and looses her shit at H? And he’s like oh fuck shit sorry Btw I love u and love for your posts
BTW I love you the most, Bub! Xx
It’s not intentional.
He’s just particular, that’s all. And he’s always been like that. He likes having the upper hand on things, he did even when he was a child. He has a concept, an idea, of how something should be done. And once he does, once the idea has embedded itself in his head, it has to be followed out the exact way he’s imagined it. Prior to angel baby, it didn’t bother you. It never irritated you, never really interfered with you or what you did. In fact, you saw it as more of a go getter attitude, a special kind of determination that he seemed to have. He’s a perfectionist, after all.
And after angel baby, you were beginning to see it less as a kind of determination, and more as a pain in the ass. Now it was a pet peeve, an annoying tendency he had that made you wanna bite his head off.
And he’s not doing it on purpose. It’s just that, angel baby is his most prized possession. Everything, in regards to involving her, can’t be anything short of perfect, has to be done with a tremendous amount of care and accuracy.
“Can’t hold a baby like tha’,” he tuts, carefully replacing your arms with his when he goes to take her from you, “yeh mad? S’like this, see?”
And you had brushed it off, initially. Of course you know how to hold a fucking baby, but she’s still got that new baby smell to the top of her head, she’s brand new, and you excuse his condescendence to new parent jitters.
Except now she’s almost 8 months, and he hasn’t quite gotten over the ‘new parent jitters’ hump yet. He’s gotta do everything, every little thing. And sometimes you think he would breastfeed her, if he could. He’s showing you how to ‘properly’ burp his little angel, how she ‘needs’ to be washed. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly pesky, he’ll even go as far as standing over your shoulder to make sure you’re guiding angel baby to latch onto your nipple the right way when it’s time for a feeding. He doesn’t see it in the same light s you are, he doesn’t think he’s being annoying, he thinks he’s helping.
There all things you know how to do, quite well in fact. And the more you hear him, murmuring to himself or hovering over you and telling you how to do it ‘the right way’, the more you feel like you just might punch him in the throat. Because these are all things you do while he’s away, or when he’s working, which is something he’s obviously looked directly past.
The day has concluded, and your on your last ounce of energy in regards to staying awake. And your patience is wearing thin, after the previous bedtime nightmare you had just endured, biting your tongue as Harry gave you a one on one lesson on how to ‘properly’ drape the blanket over angel baby in the crib. But he’s in one of those moods, happy as could be as he hums to himself. You can hear him traipsing down the hallway, heading to find you in the laundry room, his feet pattering against the wood of the floor.
“Whatcha doin’, button?” He sings, immersing himself into the room.
“Laundry.” You yawn, and he goes to snake his arms around your waist, his head settling itself to rest on your chin.
He’s chattering away about something he had seen on TV, a documentary he had watched just earlier, as you go to throw a few of angel baby’s onesies into the dryer. And he doesn’t say anything, not at first. But then he sees you throw a lint sheet in, and he’s trying to keep his mouth shut. You go to throw in another, and that’s when he puts his two cents in.
“Nuh-uh,” he dictates, “can’t put tha’ in there! Toxins ’n all tha’, here let me-”
“Shut the fuck up!,” you shout, wriggling yourself free of his grip, “I can’t- just shut up!”
“No! (Y/N) do this, (Y/N) tha’s wrong! Blah blah blah, just shut the fuck up! I know how to take care of my baby, I know how!”
And he’s on the verge of giggling, he doesn’t because it’s clear to him that you’re very tired, both literally and figuratively. He lets you reprimand him a little longer, because as he goes back and thinks about it, he’s sure he has been quite the pest.
“M’sorry, baby, really.” He pretend pouts, jutting his bottom lip out before making kissy lips at you.
“No,” you huff, “m’not giving you a kiss until you say you’ll stop mom shaming me.”
“M’so so so so so so so sorry,” he whines, and he starts squirming his body like a toddler, “now please, a kiss fo’ me.”