Chicken Soup for the Mother of Preschooler's Soul: Stories to Refresh and Rekindle the Spirit of Moms of Little Ones [NOOK Book]

Read an Excerpt

On Parade

Her children rise up and bless her.

-Proverbs 31:28

"Daddy’s home!"

Tiny figures stampede past, each clamoring to get the
first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once.

"I want a piggyback ride!"

"Look what I made for you!"

"Did you bring us anything?"

Daddy throws his arms wide and draws three squirming
bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound as he
spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts
chasing them in every direction.

No more quiet house. No more bathtime. No more
Mama. It’s as if I’ve disappeared into the woodwork I’ve
been trying to find time to clean.

He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can
stay home with the kids. This is his reward after a long day at the
office.

Who am I kidding? It hurts to see them shower affection
on David, after I’ve been here, all day long, changing
diapers, wiping noses and mopping spills. I’m the one
who’s not allowed to have a complete thought, stay
seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone
conversation.

I’m in charge of work, worry and discipline; he’s in
charge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I’m the maid, the cook,
the school marm—and the policeman; he’s the grand marshal
of the nightly daddy parade.

Where’s my parade?

Of course, we made this decision together, putting my
career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it
was the right choice for us, and I still don’t. At times, however,
it’s hard to watch David shower, dress and disappear
while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog.
Just once, I’d like to walk in the door to shouts of

"Mommy’s home!"

I know I’m being silly. Think of the things he misses out
on, things I wouldn’t trade for the most glamorous job on
the planet. He wasn’t here for Molly’s first joke, when at a
year old she reached into a basket of toys, pulled out a
dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her
nose like Mommy’s glasses. He didn’t hear her belly laugh
then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the
back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber boots—
smiling ear-to-ear—to hand me a bouquet of ragweed.
He’s not here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can
reach her, Haley has rushed over to console her. Or when
I offer Hewson a cookie, and he won’t accept it unless I
give him one for each of his "sissies" as well.

I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fighting
over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may
toss his shirt in the hamper. I don’t see anyone wrestling
me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I
catch glimpses of our day together—masks we constructed
from paper plates, flowers plucked on our
morning walk, a mountain of library books because we
had to have just one more.

Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office
camaraderie?

As the daddy procession heads back my way, I have to
admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out
with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter-and-jelly kisses.
He might exchange clever repartee with clients, but I get
to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon "just one more
time."

Let him have his parade. I’ll celebrate each day’s small
joys.

After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer.

-Mimi Greenwood Knight