I’m Not The Fun Mom

I am not the fun Mom. My kids do not think I’m fun. When it is time for bedtime or deciding who is going to take them to an activity, there are audible groans if I’m the designated parent for the job. Sometimes there are more than just groans, they have all-out complaints.

You see, Daddy is fun. Daddy tells them stories about a hamster that lives in Disney World before bed. Daddy stops for donuts on the way home from activities. I am not fun.

Not every day, but once in a while depending on what kind of day it’s been, this can really hurt my feelings. I don’t get to be fun before bed because otherwise how are they going to get their 30 minutes of reading? We have to put it on their reading log and I have to sign it and turn it into their teacher every month. I don’t want to stop to get donuts on the way home from practice because I spent 2 hours grocery shopping, planning meals, and making sure I took into account their latest brand and product preferences. Kids can go from ONLY eating Dino nuggets one week to swearing they have never in their life liked Dino nuggets the next. The mental acrobatics it takes to have a successful grocery trip is staggering.

Moms don’t get to be fun. Dad gets all the credit for being fun but the truth is we’re too busy for fun. It’s somehow our responsibility to make sure everyone has the right stuff for their first baseball practice. We’re washing uniforms and making baskets for Teacher Appreciation Week. We’re buying the birthday party gifts and keeping track of which friends are fighting this week. We are exhausted from the mental load of preparing dinners no one will eat and arguing with kids about their homework.

It can be easy to feel bitter towards my husband. Also, towards my kids. Sometimes I want to play the martyr and have a little pity party for myself. Feeling sad that no one notices that I am constantly cleaning up this kitchen. I’ve thought about going on strike for a week and watching my family flail while I lecture them about taking me for granted. In my head, they all feel very contrite and apologize profusely and never again complain about their chores.

But I don’t. No one becomes a mom for the praise and glory.

In the middle of the night when they wake up, they yell for Mom. If they feel sick they want to tell Mom. If they draw a picture at school, it’s for Mom. When we watch TV they want to cuddle with Mom. They never have to feel nervous about you being there because we may not be fun but we’re consistent. And steady. It’s a thankless job that is frustrating and also so fulfilling. You can cry tears of happiness and tears of anger on the same damn day. They won’t realize everything I’ve sacrificed for them until they’re adults, and then maybe not even then because they’ll be asking me to watch my grandkids, and how do they plant a garden. And I will answer them, and I will help them because that’s what we do. We’re not fun but we’re their comfort and we’re unwavering in our devotion to them.

Let Daddy have the fun. What we get is pretty awesome too.

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