I recently attended a fundraising event for my boyfriend’s daughter’s school. It was a great night out for parents. We were all happy to dress up, get out, socialize and, oddly enough, talk about our kids. One thing that became apparent was that all siblings seem to bicker and fight. All boys are rough and physical and talk about their balls and nuts at inappropriate times.
All this time I’d been thinking my kids were fun but out of control; that I’m failing them on account of there being two of them outnumbering one of me.
I worry they don’t get enough individual attention, that I’m not able to manage as well as a home with two parents. I’m scared that there’s a void in their lives or that they notice that everyone at baseball practice is there with their dad, not a mom with her book.
Sure, I play baseball with them on our front lawn. I wrestle with them. I ski the bunny slopes with them. But I am no substitute.
Every time they are anxious, overtired, difficult or bicker with each other I have assumed that it’s my fault, that perhaps our divorce is to blame. But maybe, just maybe, I’m not doing such a bad job after all. Maybe, just maybe, my kids are—dare I say—normal. What a relief.