In the pandemic year between last Mother’s Day and this one, I went from being primary parent—unemployed, barefoot, and pregnant in the kitchen with a toddler hanging off my leg while my husband went off to save the world from the coronavirus—to the career woman with a TV studio in her house who no longer knows the baby’s nap schedule.
Hubs and I have done all the types of parenting: primary and secondary, sharing duties as equals, absentee via FaceTime, and giving up entirely and putting on Duck Tales for an entire day. This year in pandemic parenting has taught us one key lesson—parenting philosophies be damned, the only thing that matters is survival.
Our parenting journey starts four years ago. After much shared enjoyment and much intervention of science, I give birth to Baby Boy on the day Trump is elected to the presidency. Our son’s innocence helps us deal with the news and events around us. I have flexibility doing meaningful work, can afford childcare, and Hubs is the male unicorn who enjoys coming home to garden, cook, and change diapers while I explore my new identity. I am terrible at being pregnant, meh as a Mom, and great at my job. My framework of being the architect of the family, but not the builder of all the things, holds strong.