It is a touch hard for me to admit this, but here goes: When it comes to parenting, there are some things my husband does better than I do.
I like to think of myself as the head honcho around here. I am Master of the Play Dates, Keeper of the Cheese Sticks, Goddess of the Laundry, and Queen of the Vacuum Cleaner. I've given myself a lot of titles over the past few years and I run this mother from dusk til dawn with minimal help. This is my domain and I am damn proud of the fact that the kids are still alive and the house has not yet burned to the ground.
Although I am certainly the primary caregiver to our girls, and yes daddy is working his ass off all day long, there are some things that he does so seamlessly and perfectly, I cannot help but love him a little bit more each time I witness these talents.
It's true. When push comes to shove, I have two channels: a calm, even, maternal tone or a screaming, swearing, banshee who is perpetually late. There's no in-between.
We march out of these doors three, maybe four times a day shuffling off to school, sports, and a bevy of other mundane excursions. I would wager that 95 percent of the time I end up on channel two, freaking the F**K out because we're late, I can't find the keys, the babies are stripping their clothes off, and the girls are fighting. In addition to the aforementioned roles, I am also the Queen of Losing My Cool.
My husband, on the other hand, manages to kick it into gear when the heat is on. He get coats zipped, boots on, supplies thrown in the car, everyone buckled in and off they go. He doesn't yell – hell, he doesn't even speak! He just moves, and he moves swiftly.
Sometimes I watch him and think to myself: I bet you if he had to do this crap with them all day long, every-single-damn-day he would be a crazed mess like myself. The cold, hard truth, however, is that he would still slay this task.
Yes, you are sensing some jealousy here.
I love my girls. I take care of them 24 hours a day – cooking, cleaning, driving them all over town, homework, school functions. You name it, I'm doing it. Then they ask me to play My Little Pony or Peppa Pig.
No. Nope. Nononooo!
I hate playing pretend with the kids. I always have. It's boring, I'm constantly doing it wrong (or so they tell me) and my mind is forever racing through the dozens of things I still need to accomplish before dinner.
If I received a grade in playtime it would be a D. The only thing that keeps me from failing completely is playing Barbie Hair Salon. I don't mind that too much.
My husband, on the other hand, is a champion play mate. Outside games? He's all about them. My Little Pony? The man has a designated vomit-green colored pony named Stinky Pony. And, Peppa Pig? When they play this game, my husband sounds just like Daddy Pig (which has mildly affected our sex life, I think).
He also plays video games, basketball, princesses, and wrestling. I wish I enjoyed this aspect of parenting as much as he seems to. But I don't.
He doesn't schlep the kids to the grocery store three times a week, so this little slice of parenting heaven is not something that he has grown to hate just yet. I suppose a trip to the supermarket might be fun if you only had to do it once every four months.
When daddy takes them out for milk and bread, the kids come home smiling, doughnuts in hand, and powered sugar smeared across their lips. He takes them out to eat. He has all the patience in the world with them. They eat, they play, they probably run around the restaurant jumping on tables for all I know.
He never comes home stressed and exhausted like I tend to. His way is relaxed, fun, and maybe illegal in some states. Another win for Team Daddy.
You'll never catch me attempting to coach the kids' soccer and basketball games.
First of all, I don't have the most clear understanding of a lot of sports. Second, I am far too emotional to be in charge of twelve little Sporty Spices. I am THAT mom. I would end up kicked out of more games than not – for swearing, sassing, and who knows what else.
No my husband. He's a dream coach. The kids love him and he's in his element. He's kind, energetic, patient, and smart. He knows exactly what he's doing and the kids learn a lot from him.
Next time I am pissed off at him I am going to try to remember him in his coaching light.
We have FOUR little daughters. If I'm doing the daily math, that equates to about 12 billion questions a day. The questions span just about every genre, and by midday my brain has turned to ooze from trying to answer just half of their riddles. I don't even answer them correctly most of the time. I've defaulted to just making shit up and praying that they'll accept my answer as truth.
Again, my husband kicks my ass in this area. He answers their questions and he answers them CORRECTLY. If they want to know why the sky is blue, then he sits them down and gives them a complete lesson. It's a wonder how he can solve all the questions of the universe, but he still cannot locate his socks.
Let's take a moment – but only a moment, fellas. we don't want this going to your heads – and salute great dads. Nothing is sexier than witnessing your man be an awesome parent.
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