“It doesn’t seem like you enjoy time with our children,” my
husband said.

Ouch.

That’s an exact quote. And that alone would be bad enough, but layer
on top of it my interpretation: “You are a bad mother. You don’t love our
children.”

It turned into a series of conversations. And in the end (many
tears and a few sleepless nights and lots of journal pages later), it was good.

Peter and I have been together for over half our lives. We
met at sixteen and started dating a week later. We grew up together. We’ve been
married eleven years. We’ve worked in the same office, happily. We’re a good
team. I would’ve said we knew each other really well. And then we had kids.

So what’s come out is the shocking revelation that we are
very different parents. He enjoys outings and projects. Take them to the beach.
Make a fort. Go to the playground. I think those things are okay. The beach is
messy, and the water is cold. Even as a kid, I was never big on making forts.
The playground is fine, but I prefer an activity more conducive to
conversation.

I enjoy the mundane stuff. Make the bed. Bake a cake. Sit
and cuddle. And those are the types of things (with the possible exception of
the cuddling) that make Peter want to scream (the photo at the top, for instance, where Penny and William were “helping” to scoop sugar into the measuring cup, represents joy to me and chaos to him).

It took me a week of musing to conclude that I’m not a bad
mother. I do love our children. Not only do I love them, I enjoy being with
them, at least most of the time.

Peter and I have reconciled. And we’ve learned something new
about ourselves, and about one another. Instead of judging each other for
our weaknesses, we can try to be grateful for our respective, and different,
strengths. I’m in charge of breakfast (and baking) from now on. And he will forevermore be responsible for trips to the beach.