Home Invasion

Day Six is when I lose it. Six days of single parenting is when everything breaks down for me. I can handle days one through five. For some reason, Day Six is when I let them eat Cheezits for breakfast and I don’t care. At all.

It’s not that I don’t love taking care of Sissy and the Piper. Come on. You know better than that. It’s that I’m better with a parenting partner. Parenting is easier when you pretend it’s a big game of tag. You’re it. I’m out. Whew.

So when the Dad came home on Sunday I was more than ready to hand over the reigns. I wasn’t actually that interested in hearing about all of his fancy meals out in Chicago. I’m not that sorry that the weather was horrible. I’m a little sad that he came home sick, but even this remorse has a selfish motive. He has another trip in a few days. Can you imagine how funny it would be if he came home between trips just to get us all sick? Yeah. Me neither.

On Day Six all I want is a few minutes alone. My partner gets that. He swooped in and did double parenting duty. I hid behind a closed door. But still. Piper and Sissy kept busting in with urgent questions and messages that had to be delivered. I think I got three whole minutes alone. Finally, because it was Day Six, I yelled:


Piper blinked her eyes at me. I’d let them eat Cheezits for breakfast. It’s true. But I hadn’t yelled in six days. “Because,” she said,  “the best part of this space is that you’re in it.”

Gender Trumps

We had to split teams tonight. Sissy had a violin concert at school scheduled much later than Piper’s bed time. Normally, I’d drag Piper along and juice her up on a sugar high, but she’s fighting a cold and she’s completely off sugar (more on that later).

So, one parent needed to stay home, wash lunch boxes, give a bath, do dinner dishes, etc. and one parent needed to shuttle Sissy and her violin to school and enjoy the concert. I was game for both, but after a long day giving final exams, I was kind of hoping for the home duty. It didn’t work out that way. Dad thought the sisters could rationally work out the split. He was wrong.

“Mom needs to come to the concert,” Sissy said. “She’s always supported my musical career. And she helped me pick out my dress. She gets to come.”

“Mom needs to say home,” Piper said. “No offense, Dad, but I need someone my own gender tonight.”

Partner Parenting Perils

We have an authority problem in our house.  As in, I have all of it.  In addition to my role as general manager, I’m also the supreme ruler over the distribution of Gummy Tummies. Piper likes the penguins.

Here’s the conversation following dinner last night:

Piper: “Can I have a gummy tummy?”
Dad: “Sure.”
Sissy: “You don’t have the authority to decide. Mom gives out the treats.”
Dad. “What? Huh?”
Piper: “That’s right.  You’re not the responsibility around here!”

I don’t endorse nor do I desire all the authority.  It comes with too much “responsibility.”  My partner and I do a pretty good job of dividing the work load.  We each cook, clean, and care for the kids. We both work full-time. There are things I do better, like paying bills and managing the schedule, and there are things he does better, like taking the kids for shots and vacuuming. The split works for us mostly because we’ve each been home with the kids for extended periods of time and know, without a doubt, that the hardest job is staying.  It’s so much easier to put on my high heels and grab my lunch box.  But we both think it matters to be home, so we do a lot of tag team parenting.  We flip our work schedules. Somehow in the mix, though, my alpha nature has been misconstrued by Piper and Sissy. You’d think my partner would be upset about it.  His response? “I’m rising to my highest level of incompetence.”  True. Doing things poorly is one way to not have to do them at all.  Competence at the task does equal some amount of authority, doesn’t?

This partner parenting peril became apparent this morning when we discovered that the kids’ lunches hadn’t been packed.  We went to the chore chart immediately because it holds the ultimate authority in our house.

It was a Friday morning.  Clearly, he’s in charge of packing the lunches on Thursday evenings.  It’s his one night of the week.  Now, before you crucify him as I did…Thursday night was crazy.  He was shuttling the girls between ballet and piano and picking me up late from work.  We gave up at 7 o’clock and ate out.  It was an evening to be endured and survived.  You’ve had those, too, I’m guessing.  So, we were a bit off schedule. Understandable.  Even forgivable.  Logically, he should pack the lunches Friday morning, right? Enter Piper.  “Daddy makes the grody lunches.  He doesn’t pack healthy stuff.  And he forgets the note.”  Sissy confirmed his incompetence.  I suggested he was just doing it differently, not better or worse, and I think I then yelled something about them packing their own flipping lunches.  It’s fuzzy to me now. Potty words before 9 a.m. will do that to you.

So, how do we sort out our authority problem?  Which really means how do I diffuse power for the greater good?  The answer was in this simple question: “Who wants to go to the park?” I have no authority at the park.  In wide open spaces where metal bars are concerned, I’m that helicopter parent who insists on spotting every stray toddler as they descend the monkey bars. Piper and Sissy ran out the door with their dad. The world’s worst park mom was left behind.

And for the record, I did pack the Friday morning lunches but not because he does it better or worse. He had to be at work earlier than me.  I do pack a mean lunch.

Whole Wheat Pita Bread, Green Beans, Baby Carrots, Blueberries, Hummus

Sometimes even the general manager has to get her hands dirty.