{I had no idea I had gotten so behind on responding to comments. I think I’m all caught up if you want to go back and check out the last few posts. It’s not like I wrote anything mind-blowing, but there are responses there now.}
It took me less than four weeks to start envying my husband as he walked out the door every morning. I envy the fact that he had a life away from our house and our kids. I envied his ability to walk away and leave it all behind for 8 hours. Seriously, when he’s at work he doesn’t have to think about anything family related at all. I can’t even fathom that.
The reality is I NEVER get to walk away and not look back, not even for an hour. Even when I do go to work every day I carry my family life with me. I’m always thinking about the doctor’s appointment I have to make, or the ones I’ve already made that I don’t want to forget. I’m always considering the cost of therapy for my daughter and wondering if it will even help or listening to a book-on-tape that will give me skills to better navigate my kids’ challenging sibling interactions. I’m always orchestrating the elaborate pick-up and drop-off schedule, mentally checking off that everyone is where they need to be and making sure they’ll get retrieved from those places later.
I am the one who has to get it all done. It ALL falls on me. The most my husband takes with him is whether or not we need milk before bedtime. That’s really it. And most of the time he texts me to see if I can pick it up.
Sometimes I’m really jealous of my husband, jealous that he gets to be the dad, that parenthood didn’t seep into every crevice of his brain, that it didn’t harden in every nook and cranny of his life. I’m envious that there is a part of his previous life out there, still in tact. That part is probably smaller than I imagine it is, but it’s there. I don’t have that remnant of my former self. Every single aspect of every single day has been changed, altered, warped, stained. Motherhood has touched everything. It is a program that always runs in the background, triggering pop-up windows and forcing other programs to run slowly or crash altogether. No, motherhood isn’t just a program, it’s the operating system on my computer that I didn’t update for so long that now I can’t–it bogs down everything else I try to run and I’m constantly having to force quite the applications I need the most. Sometimes I can’t run a program at all because my motherhood operating system is too clunky to support it. Motherhood is me having to shut everything down periodically so I can restart the whole machine, which always happens at the most inopportune time.
Fatherhood is my husband’s totally updated operating system that manages all the programs he wants to run without anything stalling or crashing or needing to be force quit. Fatherhood is his computer running perfectly. He logs out when he’s not using it and logs back in when he has something to do. It’s always there when he needs it and it’s always working.
Oh my god I love this metaphor!
There are so many things about my husband’s life that I’m envious of. Here are just a few.
I’m jealous that:
– He’s never even set foot in the space occupied by our laundry machines, let alone put clothes in them or turned them on.
– He doesn’t have to check his phone when he’s out to see if I’ve called asking him where something is or how to manage someone who’s upset or what to do about so-and-so problem.
– When he’s out of town he doesn’t have to worry that the kids are okay or if I’m managing fine without them.
– He doesn’t have to wonder if I will be home on a certain night when he is making plans–it always falls to me to get coverage if we both want to do something. (To be fair he will help me get coverage, but it ultimately falls on me.)
– He doesn’t have to keep track of appointments, school conferences, drop off or pick up times, what to bring to the class party, whose birthday party is this weekend and whether a present is required, if we’ve contributed to the teacher appreciation envelope, the names of our daughter’s classmates and their parents, the final deadline for Kindergarten registration, the final deadline for the after school program’s registration, etc.)
– He doesn’t have to get up when the kids cry in the night (when he does they just get more upset and scream for me).
– He doesn’t have to endure the banshee screaming of my daughter when she gets her hair washed. In fact he has never bathed either of his children, not in five years.
– He doesn’t have to think about when or how he’s going to pick up all the shit on the floor, or get the beds changed, or scour the shower, or wipe down the bathroom sink, or pick up the kids’ rooms or vacuum the floors, or sweep the entry way, or wipe down the play mats, or well, you get the picture.
– He isn’t the person our kids rile against when they need someone to help them unload their emotional backpacks.
– He hasn’t spent countless hours reading books and articles on how to manage tantrums or help picky eaters try different foods, or which formula is best, or how to help siblings navigate conflicts, or how to have more sex and a happier marriage.
– He doesn’t even think about all those things I’ve been reading books and articles about it.
Sure, being a parent is important to him. Sure it is a HUGE part of his life. I’m sure he would say it is his whole life. But it’s not. At least it’s not his whole life in the same way it’s my whole life. He can walk away for a few hours every day. He can take a break.
Yesterday I called my husband to see if he could take our daughter to camp so I could meet a friend early in the morning. He was clearly busy and annoyed that I was interrupting his day. It’s in those moments that I see the space he has, the bubble that protects him from the onslaught of us. I see it because he gets prickly when I invade that space, when I force my way into his bubble with a phone call or a text, when I remind him we’re still here even if he’s not.
I know I created this dynamic, or at the very least enabled it. I made conscious choices to take on all of this because the alternative was worse. I couldn’t handle the sighing and the woe-is-me attitude. I couldn’t stomach the defeatism. So I took it all on, or most of it. And while it’s better now, it’s not where I want it to be. And even if it were, it would still, ultimately, fall on me. Because I’m the mom, and the mom is usually the default parent who does all the invisible work.
Are you the “default” half of your relationship? Do you ever wish you weren’t?

