Mom versus Dad

I'd call it a friendly battle of the sexes.   My husband and I have enjoyed this banter about whose job is tougher, since our first was born.

As a mom to one I rarely won the battle. It was an adjustment, not hard. My husband had to earn twice as much now that I wasn't working.  I didn't know how to cook, so I didn't.  And despite Eric being tired after a long day at work, I immediately passed him Emily when he walked through the door.  

Two more children, and I was catching up! I learned how to cook for a big family, and made our house a home.  I began  home schooling, and cheerfully embraced my vocation . . . most of the time.  But, on the days everyone was sick or fussy or both, I boasted that moms were stronger.

The twins survived toddlerhood

The twin's birth helped me win a few more races to the martyr finish line. Carrying eleven pounds of babies, and helping two toddlers survive was strong artillery for my side.  I had mastered laundry, so that shirts and sweats made it through four boys. Still, Dad renovated our farm house, worked more than sixty hours a week, and had two more mouths to feed.

One more baby girl. My husband and I continued to trade war stories, and winners.        

This afternoon the children went sliding. I did not pester the older siblings, and dressed the little ones by myself.  Our youngest cried because her fingers didn't fit in her gloves.  Her hysteria increased as mittens frustrated her too. They flew across the entry, because they were "boy color."

After I stuffed her into snow pants, boots, jacket, hat, and last year's gloves, I moved on to Michael. His snow pant strap broke,  until I found a safety pin buried in the junk drawer. I was getting warm, but finished preparing Michael for the elements.

My eight year old, Ryan, put his gloves on before the rest of his winter wear.  Apparently, they were "impossible to get on," so he wasn't taking them off.  I dressed him from head to toe. His jacket zipper broke. Michael loaned me his safety pin for the zipper and three were ready.

Safety pin returned, Josh was next.  Mary's hat slid over her eyes. She was tired and hot waiting for her brothers. I empathised.  Joshua couldn't  get his boots on. I checked for old, wet socks tucked in the bottom. No. He stood, jamming his feet in. No. I tried shoving them on from the front. No. How about lifting him up and "dropping him into the boots?" No. Now I was sweating. Boot dirt covered my sweater. Finally, my six year old sat on my lap and I pulled with every ounce of strength.  POP! They were on.

I was breathing as if I had just run a 5K. The big kids took a little kid's hand to head out. Not soon enough. Michael needed to go to the bathroom, and everything had to come off!

Half an hour later, I stood at the top of our backyard hill, watching my blessings slide. I couldn't wait to win our friendly battle of the sexes, tonight.  I definitely had the harder day.  

Eric arrived from work looking exhausted. "How was your day?" he asked me trying to appear interested.

"The kids went sliding," I said, tucking my story away for another day. It wasn't the time to beg for affirmation by explaining how hard my vocation was.  He squeezed my hand and reminded me how good it was for them to get fresh air and exercise.

It was all I needed to hear. He didn't tell me that I was a better parent, or more patient. He didn't tell me that moms are stronger than dads. In our traditional marriage a kind observation beats winning the gender battle.  We both win.

Still, a little friendly competition never hurt.