When they say, “I wish Daddy could stay home from work instead of you,” it stings a little. When they say, “Daddy is better than you,” it stings a lot.
Maybe it’s just innocent kid talk. Taking their frustrations out on you, the one who’s with them a majority of the time. So many diapers changed. Boo boos kissed. That you have to be the bad guy simply by default.
Or maybe I do yell too much. Blog too much. Not linger at their side enough. Maybe I aren’t kind enough, don’t give hugs enough, don’t let them win enough.
Maybe terrible twos and fussy fives and sarcastic sevens are a thing. Maybe it’s a phase and it will pass. But maybe I’m just not who I ever wanted to be. Maybe all the parenting magazines in the world won’t make me better at being a mom. At being the favorite.
Maybe I do too much, push too much. Too much sunscreen, too much bike helmets and vegetables and not enough ice cream and stickers. Too much cleaning, not enough playing. Too much meddling, not enough singing. Not enough building castles, too much tv. Not enough laughs, too many stop standing on the couches.
Too many wash your hands, not enough mud pies. Too many walk or you’ll fall downs, not enough running free. Too many not nows, not enough spontaneous dancing. Too much shared time, not enough one on one.