Under his breath I hear him say it: "Mama's boy."
There's an unmistakable laugh in his voice but I don't care. The expression makes me bristle with rage.
"That's not fair."
He's been crying since I made the handoff.
I'm trying to finish the tortilla pizzas. I'm not the one who usually does the cooking in this house. I need my wits about me as I'm searing chicken sausage.
At first it was slow, unsure chirps that could go either way. Soon it was clear the boyo was headed for the goal -- me.
I still had my sling around my shoulder, waiting for the exchange. Nothing.
"Are you OK," I call through the steam of the now translucent onions.
"Fine," he says in the adament yet disturbed voice of a dad struggling with the Fourth Trimester Blues. The first three months on the outside when only mama has the touch.
It's painful, really. As I sprinkle chopped peppers, onions and cheese over a thin layer of sauce, I find myself trying to soften the blow:
"He's just hungry."
"He has been fussy all day. It's not you."
But when dad hands him back he instantly settles.
"You realize once he's a little older YOU will be the hero, right?"
I've slid the tiny pizzas into the oven, and in minutes they are ready.
"Here. ... I'll trade ya."