The Default Parent Paradox:

Why He Gets Breaks and I Get… Asked for Snacks

There are moments in motherhood when you suddenly realize,
Oh. I’m the default parent.
Not because anyone assigned you the role.
Not because you're the only emotionally mature adult in the house (even though… let’s be honest).
But because somehow, somewhere between pregnancy and present day, you became the person everyone gravitates toward when their world is ending.

Or when they need a yogurt.
Or when they can’t find the shoe that's literally in front of them.
Or when they're bored.
Or hungry.
Or breathing.

This weekend I had a very specific moment of clarity: My husband, God love him, took a two-hour “vacation” to watch a F1 race… uninterrupted.

Two. Hours.

Do you know what I can do in two uninterrupted hours?
Absolutely not a single thing, because those hours do not exist in my universe.

When he wants to watch football or F1 or some documentary about whatever he’s fixating on in the moment, I genuinely don’t mind.
He deserves rest.
He works hard.
And I’m happy to handle the kids while he enjoys his thing.

But here’s the kicker:

I’ve never once taken a two-hour break to watch my show.
Not in the middle of the day.
Not during peak chaos.
Not when someone is melting down over a sock.

The only time I “rest” is during the baby’s nap, when the big girls are occupied or playing outside, and I basically whisper to the universe: “Is it okay if I lie down for 20 minutes without the house catching fire?”

And yes, yes, my husband is more than capable of handling all three kids. He would support me in taking the time. But the moment I tried to sit down and claim two consecutive hours?

Those children would smell my relaxation from across the house like sharks scenting blood.
They would find me.
They would ask for me.
They would need something only mommy can give, even if it’s literally just permission to breathe air.

And before anyone comes swinging with the “just ask for help” stick, let me clarify:

This is not about him being unwilling.
It’s about the fact that kids come to ME first.
It’s the muscle memory of their little bodies:

• Who do I need?

  Mommy.

• Who do I want?

  Mommy.

• Who will solve my problem, even if she’s mid-pee, mid-call, or mid-mental breakdown?

  Mommy.

It’s not intentional.
It’s not malicious.
It’s not evidence of an incompetent partner.
It’s simply the stage of life we’re in, the one where tiny humans orbit you like you’re the sun, the moon, and the emergency snack dispenser combined.

And it’s exhausting. Deeply, bone-heavy, emotionally-draining exhausting.

And yet, I also know this isn’t forever. There will come a day when they won’t need me like this. When I’ll have to beg them for a hug instead of peeling them off my leg while trying to make dinner.

But right now, in this season?
The load is heavy.
The noise is constant.
The breaks feel uneven.
And acknowledging that doesn’t make me ungrateful, it makes me human.

So here’s what I’m working on:

1. Asking for time BEFORE I’m at a breaking point.

Not when I’m on the edge of tears trying to cook and parent and breathe all at once.

2. Letting the kids lean on their dad without swooping in.

Even when they cry for me.
(Even though it physically pains my soul.)

3. Reminding myself that “default parent” is not a badge of failure, it’s a phase.

A long, exhausting phase, but a phase nonetheless.

Because at the end of the day, I don’t want a different family or a different husband or a different life. I just want the same love and chaos, with a little more room for me to watch my damn shows in peace.

Two hours. That’s all I’m asking.

And honestly?
I think I’ve earned it.