Early in our parenting journey, my partner, Alex, and I naturally settled into our distinct roles—ones that have persisted over the years. As the primary caregiver, I’ve become the expert on our children’s routines, quirks, and schedules. I’m the one who enforces bedtimes, evaluates dessert eligibility, and keeps track of screen time limits. Meanwhile, Alex is the fun one, effortlessly spinning the kids around or engaging in epic battles of Frogger, and even concocting elaborate imaginary games like “Superhero Dinosaur Rescue” (don’t even ask).
Whenever I’m away, the dynamics shift dramatically. The kids end up sharing our bed with Alex, indoor sports tournaments burst into life, and tickle fights become the norm. Conversely, when Alex is away, our household remains predictably structured. Bedtime rituals are upheld, homework precedes any screen time, and the kids often find their own entertainment. In short, I’m not the one playing.
Initially, I struggled with these defined roles—the “Fun Parent” and the “Responsible One.” My discomfort stemmed not from envy of Alex’s title but from societal expectations that suggested being the less playful parent was somehow lacking. I didn’t naturally embrace the rough-and-tumble play style; it felt like a shortcoming. What parent wouldn’t want to engage in fun with their children? This pressure to transform into a more entertaining version of myself felt akin to an irritating itch that wouldn’t go away.
Recently, I’ve begun to accept my parenting style with more grace. Yes, I might be the one calling out, “Five minutes until bedtime!” while the boys giggle over a silly cartoon, and I’d rather do almost anything than play “Superhero Dinosaur Rescue” (trust me, don’t ask). However, I find joy in shaking my hips during Just Dance, spending hours coloring, or playing multiple rounds of Candy Land consecutively.
I’ve discovered a deep sense of fulfillment in stepping back and observing their fun rather than jumping in. Just the other night, after picking Alex up from the airport, the boys eagerly asked him to play hockey in the driveway. The evening air was crisp and twilight was approaching, but I spoke up. “It’s getting late, and it’s quite chilly,” I said. “Do you really want to go out?”
“Aww, come on!” Alex replied with a mock pout.
I quietly encouraged him to go ahead, while I stayed indoors to prepare dinner. As I reheated leftovers and wondered if they’d be inside for dinner anytime soon, I glanced out the window. Instead of joining them, I chose to stay inside and watch.
From that vantage point, I saw things I might have missed had I been actively involved. I noticed the admiration in my younger son’s eyes as he watched his dad, and I observed my older son testing boundaries, something he rarely does with me. Most importantly, I could see the pure joy radiating from Alex’s face, unclouded by my presence as a referee or supervisor.
It felt soothing to witness their connection without the need to insert myself into it. This new perspective has become something akin to a balm for my earlier insecurities about being the “less fun” parent.
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In summary, embracing the role of the “less fun” parent can lead to unexpected joys and insights. By observing rather than participating, you may find deeper connections and moments of clarity in your family interactions.