It used to be that when a kid cried, I was their parent of choice.  I knew the snacks they would (actually) eat, and the things that calmed them. I was snuggley, and a little bit fun.

I was a safe harbour.

But now with Dad home more than in our old life, we are actually at a place where we are sharing (like completely) the household responsibilities.

Sharing the revenue, sharing the dishes, sharing the kid “responsibilities”

It is a great place to be, really it is. The kids now have an equal relationship with the both of us. Our home is no longer “mommy heavy” in rules, ideals and (bad) habits.

But. . .

One thing I have noticed is that my husband is a better parent than I am.

He is more fun, more exciting and creative.  He is patient, and takes time to play more than I do (did) and the kids like him.

Possibly even better than me.

Again, this is all good. He should have every right to be an amazing parent, and honestly, it does take a lot of the strain of responsibility off my shoulders, and we do parent quite similarly in terms of values and goals.

But it is weird.

I am no longer the only person who can keep this family rolling. I am no longer “Lord of the House”  and sometimes this means I don’t know what’s happening, and (god forbid) need to do something I don’t want to do, just cause “Dad planned it”

Just as he does for me, my hubs gets our family moving, and laughing and involved, and I do (after the bitterness fades) feel grateful that we were able to be in the position where he was able to spend this time finding his father-feet.

And one day (I am sure) I will be back to being the best parent.

Right??