I realized something this week. Men have a home. But women have children. Oh, there may be children in the man’s home, he may come home to children, but he does not really have children. And no, I’m not talking about the physical birthing process. That’s obvious. I mean, he does not know what it’s like to have children - all the time.
If a man works full time, his primary focus is bringing home a paycheck. And that’s great. We depend on that provision. But even if he comes home and the children rush to greet him with hugs and kisses, it is a reunion, not a continuation.
And even if we may go so far as to say he is some kind of prince among the many average toads, and he throws off the burdens of work to sit down and play with his children; his fairytale is still a far croak away from the reality of having children.
He may read books, wrestle, tickle and tuck into bed. He may gather briefcase or laptop or brown paper sack in hand the next morning fortified by the knowledge that he is going off to once again, bring provision to his family. He may even think of their happy faces to propel him through his day.
But he still doesn’t know what it’s like to have children.
If his shower was warm and lingering, the news of the day gleaned while eating breakfast, and his commute rife with stimulating talk radio or tapping along to his favorite songs, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
If he completed business calls, marked his calendar with a doctor’s appointment, and confirmed via text an outing planned for the weekend, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
If he used the restroom, stopped at the mirror to study a suspicious spot on his skin, raked through his hair for good measure, whistled in the elevator on the way to lunch, and gave no thought yet to dinner, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
Men mean well. They can even earn the title of Wonderful Father. But any thought of bragging over that trophy, better be well out of earshot of the woman who has never once separated from those children she bore to give him that title.
For whether a woman stays home to raise her children, or works outside the home, or does some combination of the two, the distinct difference between her and her man, is that she always has children.
Whether she needs a few extra minutes in the bathroom or she places them in the reliable hands of a babysitter, she never separates from her children.
They are part of her, a bond formed in the womb, now presenting itself in the mysterious way she can know when they need help. Sometimes that help is an urgent need, sometimes it’s an issue to be prayed over for a period of time. But most of the time - daily, hourly, minute by minute, it is mentally or physically tending to their needs - every second.
She can not pack a lunch without knowing that today is the spelling test. She can not change a diaper without already thinking ahead to potty training. She can not heave the wet laundry into the dryer without a running list of sizes that she needs to stock up on, flowing through her mind as easily as the names of the children who are so quickly growing.
If she wipes crumbs from the floor, plans for a chore chart spring to mind. Finds a quarter under the couch, she contemplates what to do about the Tooth Fairy. Clicks the computer mouse, is reminded of her intent to research Parent Controls for internet safety. Changes the crib sheet and automatically thinks of how her own life will be impacted when the transition is made to toddler bed.
And then there are the emotional triggers. The wobbly chair from which her baby had his first fall. The remnants of glitter from the sweet card they made for her. The door through which her daughter walked with such a forlorn expression. The bed that she knows she needs to kneel by to pray for all of them.
Every single moment of her day is intertwined with thoughts of or for her children. It’s beautiful. It’s precious. It’s exhausting.
To abandon a stop for much needed milk or diapers or feminine needs is far easier than the lifting and guiding and corralling and rebuckling of small children. The abnormal growth on her face or painful tear in her tendon is surely not worth the logistics involved in taking a child along for her doctor’s appointment, or even the shameful pleading or guilt trips she must endure to find a babysitter. The repetitions in her mind that suicide nor murder are viable options are no match for the desperation she has to talk to another woman, preferably one without kids. And the strain under which she dusts the Wonderful Father trophy while a child hangs from her leg and she recalls the agony of labor, pretty much seals her contempt for all things sexual.
She didn’t know what it would be like to have children. Not what it would really be like. But she has them now.
And though through it all she has been so altered that she could never go back to life without them lest her heart be irreversibly broken, forgive her if she stifles a laugh the next time she hears her husband answer someone, “Yes, I have children.”
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