Bad Parent: Resentment
How an equal division of labor almost destroyed my marriage.
by Hanna Otero
January 22, 2009
When Eric and I got married, I was six months into a pregnancy that felt like the world's happiest accident. We had already decided that he would quit his job to care for our daughter. My publishing job offered creative freedom and a decent paycheck. Eric was still struggling to get a toehold on his culinary career. We both felt strongly that one parent should be with the baby, so this seemed an easy solution — I would make and manage the money, he would handle childcare and household duties. Our new marriage was a partnership and we felt confident that each of us would play an equal role.
For a while, it worked. Eric was a natural at fatherhood, and Madeline blossomed in his care. As much as I hated being away from my baby, knowing that she was with her dad made leaving her bearable.
Yet, even during the best days of our marriage, I felt constant pressure to bridge the gap between the countless hours Eric was able to spend with Madeline and the meager time I eked out on weekends and evenings. Even when I was exhausted, I refused to allow him to get up with the baby when she cried in the night. Those quiet moments of bonding belonged to me. I declined social invitations, afraid to miss a minute with my child. But to admit to jealousy made me feel guilty. This was the way things were, a simple fact of our lives together. Madeline was home with a parent who loved her — even if that parent wasn't me. I could live with it.
Slowly, though, things began to change. My job became less satisfying, my commute longer. We had a second baby. Eric struggled to adjust to parenting an increasingly busy three-year-old and a newborn son. I frantically juggled giving Madeline constant attention while still finding time with the baby, who was often just minutes from bedtime when I arrived home at night. Eric kept a handle on the childcare, but his grasp on most other responsibilities began to slip. My work woes left me no patience for the many nights when he prepared little more than a cereal bar for dinner. We both felt overwhelmed and exhausted. Worse, we felt trapped in our roles.
In the years since Madeline's birth, my paycheck had doubled. My new salary meant a new house, one that we would not be able to afford if I quit my job. Eric could go back to work, but his comparatively modest income would barely cover the cost of childcare. I felt there was no way out of a bad job, Eric felt that his return to work would be little more than a gesture — one that would leave our kids with strangers, something neither of us wanted.
I wanted to run the show, even if I wasn't there.
To add to the pressure, much of the nuts-and-bolts logistics of our family life still somehow ended up in my lap. I bought the birthday presents, made the doctor's appointments, organized the social calendar, and planned the vacations. I announced when it was time to buy new shoes, or get our son a haircut, or join a tumbling class. I decided if we could buy that new rug or splurge on the fancy cell phones. And, to top it all off, when I was home, I insisted on calling shots with the kids, too: no SpongeBob marathons, no sandals in November, no spaghetti and meat sauce for breakfast.
Without question, I was the boss. I believed it was because I had to be. If I didn't notice the details, Eric could go weeks or months without realizing that the baby needed a booster shot, the rugs screamed for a thorough vacuuming, and Madeline had outgrown her pants. Eric argued that I was in charge because I wanted to be. If I just got off his back, he said, he'd eventually figure it out on his own. But I could not stop myself from criticizing. I wanted my house to operate as if I were running it all the time, even if I wasn't there. I couldn't let go.
All the things that made our arrangement work in the beginning — Eric's relaxed attitude, my much more assertive approach — had slowly pushed us into our own corners. He saw me as shrill and unbending. I believed he was unmotivated and under-involved. Needless to say, we were barely civil.
©2009 Hanna Otero and Babble
About the Author
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Hanna Otero dreams of ditching her full-time editorial job for the freelance life. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, daughter, and son. Her blog is here. |
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