By Sasha Brown-Worsham
I have long been convinced my husband was the superior parent.
His patience is more extensive, his stamina — for "one
more" reading of Olivia or "two more minutes" in the
bath or fifteen bedtime stories — far superior to my "one and
done" attitude towards almost everything regarding parenting —
one story, one hug, one kiss.
This attitude has its perks — it is Rob our daughter requests in
the middle of the night, his presence she demands when she falls
down. "Daddy!" she cries when kisses are required
after she has skinned her knee.
For the first two years of her life, Sam's heart was broken
every morning when her briefcase-toting father walked out the
door. Sometimes it was easier and I could tempt her away with
a treat, a walk, a trip to the park. And other days were more
difficult as she slumped against the door, her sobs slowly giving
way to pathetic whimperings that could last up to an hour.
I think both Rob and I had become comfortable with this. Me
playing the bad parent, the one resigned to doing the lion's
share of the child-rearing while my superhero husband — "the
most amazing dad" as many of my friends called him — brought
home the bacon and provided our children with the bulk of their
emotional reassurance.
I was the set designer for the play Rob acted in.I
was the set designer who provided the framework and the structure
for the play Rob acted in, basking in our daughter's love while
I nursed our infant son, made her lunch for the babysitter or typed
out the craft sheet for her co-op pre-school.
And even though I felt guilt and sadness that I was failing at
something that seemed to come so naturally to other women, and was
humiliated at her second birthday when she demanded to be held by
daddy and told mommy to "go away" when I presented the
cake I had spent four hours baking, I accepted it. It was
understandable, I thought. After all, he was the superior
parent.
At lunchtime, I would tap my toes while my daughter dawdled over
her pasta, swirling the whole-wheat spirals through the tomato
sauce and turning each morsel into a four-bite experience. My
computer, its light flickering, always beckoned me. I always
wanted her to hurry up, for my husband to come home so I could get
peace, thirty minutes away from their endless demands, a long run
away from my son's constant cries for more milk, Sam's
chatter — so cute and sweet, but so endless — "Mommy, what
happened? Can I watch TV? Can I draw? Read to me.
Play with me. Can we go to the park?"
No. No. No. I was a bad mommy.
And my husband — who is happy to sit at the table with her for an
hour — wouldn't let me forget it.
Often, I would go to him for support. "This is so
hard," I would cry when he walked in the door at six p.m.
before I'd showered, put on clothing or brushed my
hair.
He learned quickly not to ask me what was for dinner, lest I
snap. He learned to let me go for a run immediately, to work
off the stress from my day. But he never did quite get the
hang of what not to say to the harried mother who has just been
drained all day by her two — lovely and endearing — vampire
children.
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