Are you the default parent?
If you have to think about it, you’re not. You’d know. Trust me.
The default parent is the one responsible for the emotional, physical and logistical needs of the children. Spoiler alert: It’s typically the one with the uterus.
The first time I knew I was the default parent was when our first child was napping and Dan and I were painting the guest room. When she cried, he didn’t, even for a second, pause what he was doing and consider getting her. At this point, we both worked in the corporate world and we were engaged in the same home project. It was a level playing field, well, if you didn’t count the fact I carried and fed her for nine months in my body, which would make me slightly ahead in the not-being-the-one-to-default-to-her arena. I thought, well this is bullshit.
What is the Default Parent?
Fourteen years later, I’m still the default parent. Now I work part-time from home with my own consulting business, so it makes a little more sense, but it’s still kinda bullshit. Mum, mum, mum, mummy, mum, mum, mama, mummy, mum. All. Day. Long.
I handle the needs of all three of our kids: activity sign-ups, transportation logistics, doctor & dentist appointments, friend and boy issues, hurt feelings, school fundraisers, gift buying, haircuts, clothes shopping, and thank you note writing, which, incidentally, is the work of the devil. I also manage the organisation of drawers between seasons to see what fits. This is a crap job that only the default parent even knows exists.
Default parents know the names of their kids’ teachers, all of them. They fill out endless forms, including the 20-page legal document necessary to play a sport at school, requiring a blood oath not to sue when your kids gets concussions, because they are going to get concussions.
They listen to long, boring, intricate stories about gym games that make no sense. They spell words, constantly. They know how much wrapping paper there is in the house. The default parent doesn’t have her own calendar, but one with everyone’s events on it that makes her head hurt when she looks at it. They know a notary. They buy poster board in 10-packs. They’ve worked tirelessly to form a bond with the school receptionists. They know their kids’ sizes, including shoes, dammit.
Shout Out to the Back-Up Parent
And by the way, this article is in no way a competition between husband and wife for who has it worse. My husband is the default earner, the default lawn mower and the default spider killer, which all come with equal stress and dissatisfaction that he is welcome to blog about.