My husband works much longer hours than I do, which means most of the daily responsibility of caring for the girls belongs to me. I wake them up. I get them dressed. I feed them breakfast. I drop them off at daycare. I pick them up again. I play with them. I feed them dinner. You get the point. I’m not complaining at all. I’m simply the one at home while he is hard at work.
Sometimes, though, the responsibility falls on him. Like the other evening, while I was attending a seminar.
He picked the girls up from daycare. I worried he wouldn’t get there soon enough and he would leave them there too long and they would be wondering when someone was coming for them.
He fed them dinner. I worried he would take them to eat and they wouldn’t eat a healthy dinner and they would eat chicken nuggets and french fries with no fruit or vegetables.
He took them to their first day of the Happy Books Happy Cooks class at the library. I worried they wouldn’t arrive on time and Maddie would feel nervous and the class would run too late for a school night.
It’s not that I don’t find him capable. He is a wonderful daddy. I just worried he wouldn’t do it like me…you know, he wouldn’t do it right.
The next morning, the responsibilities were mine once again. I crept into Maddie’s bedroom to rouse her awake, and I was surprised when her first sleepy words were, “Where is Daddy?”
“Well, he’s at work, honey,” I answered.
“I miss him,” she whispered.
Smiling, I thought: He did it right.