The parenthood journey is a little different for Mom than it is for Dad

When you embark on the perilous journey from couplehood to parenthood, it's helpful to remember that your husband is not traveling on exactly the same road as you are. At times, you will look at him and think perhaps he is not traveling even in the same universe. Muddling through the first months of parenthood is a bit like someone has plunged both you and your husband's heads underwater and is holding them there as you thrash about snatching desperately at diaper wipes, bottles of formula and fleeting moments of sleep. Eventually, you're able to come up for a few moments of air. Of course, your husband, having not actually given birth, is usually able to climb out of the water completely, dry off, and go back to work for a good portion of the day. He soon re-acclimates to the adult world where people speak in complete sentences, go about their day without carrying an infant and overstuffed diaper bag everywhere they go, and get actual breaks for things like eating and using the bathroom. Meanwhile, mom's world morphs into this time warp where regular bathing is an elusive luxury, uninterrupted sleep is the holy grail and all personal care functions – including eating – must be accomplished with only one hand. Somehow we master all this due, I imagine, to that maternal instinct that dwells somewhere deep within us. (We also suddenly realize why mothers of another era were so often prescribed drugs like speed to help them manage.) Some of us even manage to slip back into the work world to bask in the joy of being harangued by bosses and co-workers who, we at least can be assured, won't spit up on us or need our help in the potty (unless we happen to work with small children or patients). When we manage to get through a day, we feel a bit like Indiana Jones, face smeared with the sweat, dirt and grease of battling a pit full of snakes and a boulder bearing down on us. And then we wonder what the heck that husband of ours is doing sitting on the couch, watching TV? One look at us with our wild eyes and dirt-smeared faces and they're scared to death while we wonder why they're not offering to do the dishes. But there is good news. The children grow up. They start walking on their own two feet. They start feeding themselves. They even start asking Daddy to do things for them. Daddies are usually quite proud of themselves when they pitch in. It's best to encourage them by allowing them to believe they have helped a great deal. In time, the workload levels out – in large part because the children start taking on more responsibility for themselves. But by trial and error (and perhaps a few mommy breakdowns) Daddy figures out how to be really helpful. He even starts anticipating how to help without being asked. It takes time, but they get there. And you love them all the more for it when they do.

Everything is the mother's fault

This is a lesson you might recall from your own childhood. Without fail, just about anything that goes wrong in a child's life is the mother's fault. Sometimes it's the child who lays the blame: “You were supposed to pick me up early. . . . You didn't dress me in the right color. . ... You said you would leave the light on. ... You brought the wrong baseball glove.” Other times it's your spouse: “The children should have gone to bed earlier. ... The basement is a mess. ... You should make the kids pick up their toys before bed.” Your parents will tell you what you're doing wrong as well: “You should be letting the baby cry for 10 minutes ... They aren't potty-trained already?” Complete strangers will weigh in: “If you don't lose the pacifier, he'll have buck teeth. ... You shouldn't stop breast-feeding until the baby is a year old.” Now I suppose all this blame makes sense. A mother is often the center of a child's world and therefore worthy of absorbing the bulk of the blame as well the praise for what happens in a child's life – though there always seems to be so much more of the former. I've often thought what a good idea it would be to have child psychiatry a regular part of annual well child doctor's visits. After the vaccinations and the eye-chart test, the child could lie down on a chaise and spill for the doc all the ills he feels mom has inflicted on him. “My mom won't leave the hall light on at night and the noises outside my window scare me.” We could take care of the problem right there at age 5 and avoid having the same conversation with a therapist 30 years later and deciding that mom's hall light failings are to blame for the adult child's foibles. Anyhow, I tired of this whole “It's all the mom's fault thing” some time ago. When anyone in my family starts in with it, I stop them right there ... and agree. “Yes,” I say, “It is my fault. It's all my fault and always will be. However, now that we've established that, we're going to have to solve this problem. Any suggestions?”