The 21st Century SAHM

Don’t worry about it, Mom. Dad will figure it out. He took the Star Wars origami project that I’d been unsuccessfully fiddling with for 20 minutes out of my hands. And he walked away.

It was a knife-slice to the heart. When did Daddy become the smart parent? How did I lose that status? Did I ever have it? Is it because I am a stay-at-home mom? Is it because I am a woman?

There are many roles and titles that I’ve learned to accept throughout my motherhood years. I am the default parent. Want to know the rules? Ask Mom. Want to stay up late and eat sugar? Ask Dad. Mom insists on vegetables with dinner; Dad’s more likely to swing in to Taco Bell. I make them pick up their toys far more than Daddy does. And I get on the floor and play far less than he.

I accept that he’s the fun one. And that their time with him is more special, as he works and travels a lot. Their time with me is… well, all the time. So it is easy to take me for granted.

I am okay with all of that.

I am not okay with Dad being the only smart one. Who builds massive Lego projects with you? Mommy. Who helps you with your homework? Mommy. Who takes you to the library? Mommy. Yet, if something is mentally challenging, the go-to response is, I’ll ask Dad.

It’s probably not their fault; they don’t mean to hurt me. They’ve never seen me use my degree. They’ve never seen me get dressed for work. They never saw my classrooms were I taught English literature to honors seniors before they were born. They don’t know what bachelor’s and master’s degrees are, so they don’t know that I earned both of mine years ago.

They do see Daddy dress in fancy suits and fly away on airplanes to very important meetings. They’ve seen his 10th floor office overlooking the city. He has a title. If someone asks, What does your daddy do? they have an answer.

They love Mommy. Mommy is always around. I wipe their butts and clip their fingernails and make their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. If you ask them, they’ll say I’m a writer. They’ll say I used to be a teacher. They’ll say I’m smart. They’ll say all of these things because their father and I have told them all of these things. But they don’t live it. And I’m not sure they believe it.

This is why I write. Because my little girl, I fear, is being conditioned as my boys are to think of her father as the smart parent. The truth is, he’s brilliant. So of course they think he’s smart, and they should. But for all the titles I’ve accepted don’t apply to me—the fun one, the spontaneous one, the rule-breaker—there is one title I refuse to give up. I am the smart one too.

So when my son started walking away last night with that damn Start Wars origami figure, I snatched it right back. I looked him in the eye and said, “I will figure this out.” And I did. I sat at my kitchen table and the world around me disappeared. I zoned the 3-year old out. I didn’t cook dinner. Nothing was going to stand in the way of me and that storm trooper.

Upon completion, I handed it back to my son, proudly stating, “Mommy can do stuff.” And I looked at my daughter and added, “Girls can do anything. Do you hear me? ANYTHING.”

And then I made dinner. With vegetables.