We work hard for our money

Don't lie to me. You've all had this conversation with your spouse before. You know the one, the one that attempts to determine which of you has the harder job. On Sunday morning as we were preparing for church, Bubba and I had this conversation for the umpteenth time. I had bathed myself, Henry, and Annie, had done the breakfast dishes (which included the remains of the tuna fish sandwich Henry requested), prepared the diaper bag for church, and was nursing Annie when Bubba came home from his morning meeting and wondered why we weren't ready to go. A perfect scenario for another round of the "who has it worse off" game. Bubba said something interesting this time - I kid you not - he actually suggested that we sit down and try to quantify which of us actually works more hours each week.

So, in preparation for this meeting, I've been trying to determine how, exactly, to convert our respective tasks into a common unit for comparison. Would changing 5 dirty diapers be the equivalent of writing 1 brief? Does controlling a temper tantrum in public equal the taking of one deposition? What about loading 2 children into car seats, then into the grocery store, then maintaining possession of said children whilst frantically filling cart with foodstuffs, then loading kids back in the car (this time with 47 bags of groceries), then carrying the whole lot up a flight of stairs? What unit of work, my dear Bubba, is that equal to?

Of course, it's not really possible to determine who has the hardest job, because there are so many unquantifiable aspects to each of our roles. And even if we could determine which role is more difficult, what really would be the point? I suppose this conversation arises because we both want to feel validated, we both want our efforts to be recognized, we each want the other to acknowledge that we both do difficult and trying things each day.

I think that constantly bemoaning all the hard things I do as a mother is the wrong way to go about parenthood. When I look back on my childhood, I don't remember my mom complaining about how hard her lot was. I remember her pretending to be a beautician when she curled my hair in the morning, and making rice krispie treats and chocolate chip cookies for my sack lunch, and cheerfully working in the garden.

It reminds me of a quote I love from The Painted Veil: "Remember that it is nothing to do your duty, that it is demanded of you and is no more meritorious than to wash your hands when they are dirty; the only thing that counts is the love of duty; when love and duty are one, then grace is in you and you will enjoy a happiness which passes all understanding."

So next Sunday when Henry requests a tuna fish sandwich for breakfast and I struggle to find a skirt that I can fit into, I hope instead of tallying up the hours of work I will just smile and love it.