Today I took my husband’s praise.
Uh, huh, take that one in for a moment.
You see, yesterday my daughter threw up all over herself and the car seat on the way to the park.
It was one of those: “Mommy, my tummy hurts.”
“Oh no, do you need to go to the bathroom.”
Then chunks of a partially digested bagel with cream cheese spewed out of her coughing mouth.
Yep. It was just as gross as it sounded.
I luckily had spare clothes and did the best I could at the moment to clean the seat, but when we got back into the car to go home, the stench of vomit filled our nostrils. I opened all the windows, and we all did our best not to dry-heave the whole way home.
That night, while I was working, I asked my husband to wash it. And he did because he's a good daddy/husband and a good cleaner.
Well, today, when we got into the car, my eldest, who is smell-sensitive, said, "Yay, my car seat smells so good. Thank you so much, mommy. I love you."
And you know what I said?
“Aww, I love you too.” I took that praise and ate it up. I didn’t tell her that no, it was her daddy, which I felt bad about for a hot moment.
But then that moment quickly passed.
You see, my husband is what we call the novelty parent. He’s the parent they spend weekends with and only see for special tuck in/bedtime stories on the weekdays. So, everything daddy does is praised and special. I mean, he walks into the room, and all three of my girls run up to him like they're puppies, and he's their owner--which I love for him, by the way.
But, me. I do everything.
I’m the go-to parent.
I’m the one who changes every diaper and spends all day entertaining them.
I’m the one who makes bottles, meal preps, and bathes them.
And do I ever get a thank you? NO. Not once.
So, today I gobbled up his praise, and I didn’t feel one bit bad about it.