I Am a Terrible Mother

Ever since my wife went back to work full-time, I’ve had to step in and take on some of the more “traditional” mothering duties, and let me tell you, women might be able to do anything a man can do, but I certainly can’t do everything a woman can. Not well at least. I am a bad, bad, mother.

For starters, what a logistical nightmare mothering is. When our role shifts began last year, my wife would drop me a thousand texts a day telling me where each kid was going after school, who they were playing with, and who I needed to coordinate with in order to make sure everyone stayed alive. She was sending me so many texts I wondered how she could possibly get any work done, because I certainly wasn’t with my phone vibrating every two seconds. How does she do it?

Putting on a Show

For a while, I tried to keep up. I drove the kids to where they needed to go. I chatted with the other moms during drop-off and pickup times. Then I’d thread the needle between getting one kid to one place, and another somewhere else just in time for the next event. I ramped up on my positive encouragement of the kids’ schoolwork too, championing their homework efforts and instructing them on how to be good people. And at every drop-off and every pickup, I kept a smile on my face and was pleasant to everyone I met, trying hard to maintain the illusion that I was totally capable of juggling this act.

Eventually, I bonked. After a few months of trying to keep up with the mothers from the modern era, I had nothing left. I needed to get some me time back, however which way I could. Now when I dropped a kid off, I’d just bring the truck to a slow roll, let the kid leap out, and hit the gas. No time to talk today! And how great were covid masks? I welcomed covid masks like a warm glove. No more losing another half hour of your day bumping into someone at the grocery store; masks provided plausible deniability that you didn’t see them at all.

Nope, I had no idea that was you!

Implementing the Child Labor Program

On the kid front, no longer able to field the constant demands for free stuff, most of my advice now turned towards future employment. When a kid asked me if they could buy something I would say, “sure, do you have any money? No? Oh. You’re going to need a job then.” To help motivate them I created a list of chores with different monetary value. Some chores, like cutting the lawn, paid good money. Other jobs simply permitted the child to continue living under my roof.

I’d like to say that this approach worked, but even giving chores became a chore. Eventually the kids stopped caring about chores because they all think they are going to make a ton of money posting viral videos on the internet. I don’t know if delusions of grandeur is a global predicament for our youth, or just an American one, but I can no longer reason with such people. I’m mothered out.

Dad is Tapped

Look, I tried to be a good mom, but this is nuts. Where can a mom get some free time to decompress? Dad needs to shut it down for a few hours a day in order to hear himself think. You know, recharge the old batteries and give himself a pep talk. I’m not engineered for this. It’s noisy enough in my head just trying to sort out what I have to do each day for my job, but now with four little people’s social calendars taking up so much of my headspace, I can’t hear anything at all.

I knew that I wasn’t well-equipped for this. One time, before covid, my wife told me she signed me up to be one of the class parents for my daughter’s group birthday party at school. Glancing over from the other side of the kitchen island, the command center of family operations, I said, “that’s not a thing. Parents don’t do birthday parties for kids at school. Do they?” She informed me it was. Worse, my daughter knew my wife signed me up for it, which meant I now had to go. She was counting on it. I was doomed. Too tired to raise questions about why I wasn’t being involved about decisions directly affecting my life, I accepted my fate.

Men and Kids Agree

It was during this class party, as I sat at a little chair designed for seven-year-old knees, that I learned my parental limits. At first the kids thought it was a little strange for a father to be one of the volunteers. You and me both, kids. They eye-balled me, preparing themselves to yell “stranger danger” just like we’ve trained all of them to do, especially when they come across a man they’ve never seen before. Oh man, I’m not supposed to be here! But eventually, they warmed up to me.

As the kids grew increasingly comfortable with my presence and decided I wasn’t a kidnapper, one of the boys approached. He started telling me a story and then rubbing his snot-covered nose, proceeded to put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel sweat percolating around my temples and in that moment my feelings about volunteering for kid parties became very clear. I don’t want to be here—I don’t wanna be here at all. Later, as I tried to run a game of pin the tail on the donkey where the contestants cheated, refused to listen, and blurted out nonsensical words just to hear their own voices, I could feel my inner Kindergarten Cop emerging. This was not a good place for me to be.

Offering My Resignation

That evening I respectfully submitted my retirement from all volunteer activities that I didn’t sign up for. It didn’t matter to me that “other dads” have supposedly done this and enjoyed it. I’m sure they are all wonderful fathers, and probably way better people than me. I wish I had their fortitude. But if you are a dad who enjoys being a class volunteer for a group of seven-year-olds, forgive me if I’m a little wary of you. It’s only because I DON’T GET YOU AT ALL.

Hey, I love kids, and I’ve had a great time coaching other people’s kids, so it’s not like I’m immune to teaching or helping out. And as far as my own kids go, I’m more than happy to keep devoting every free minute of my life to them. But the confines of a first-grade classroom has to be one of the scariest places on earth. I’d rather order a Shirley Temple at the Triple O’s Lounge in old Southie then spend another five minutes in an elementary classroom. To all of the moms who manage this so bravely, you have my undying respect and admiration. You make it look easy.