“Do you want to sit in the front seat or the back?”
“Do you want to eat a burger or a hot dog?”
“Do you want to go dancing or play miniature golf?”
I wasn’t an opinionless bimbo. But most choices in life weren’t important enough to care about. I’d still get to wherever I was going whether I sat in the front or the back seat of the car. I liked burgers and hotdogs. Same with miniature golf and dancing.
Then I had kids.
Making minuscule decisions became my sole duty. I was The Mom.
So they get hamburgers over hotdogs, because I don’t want my kids to turn into hairy green aliens from all of the chemicals in the scary franks. They sit in the back seat because bulky car seats are so darned cute, and also I don’t want to go to jail. They get to dance instead of play miniature golf, because they can do it in the living room, and it’s free.
I’ve been in the same profession for over a decade now, and nobody else seems to want to step up and be The Mom. So I keep doing it. I’m not trying to be bossy. It’s just part of the job description.
Looking back on things now, I should have applied for The Dad position. The other day I asked my husband what he wanted for dinner.
He just shrugged. “Whatever.”