I certainly didn’t earn the title of “Parent of the Year” today. To be honest, I hadn’t secured that accolade on any day prior, even during the long stretch before my husband fell ill. I often found solace in the lighthearted banter with friends about our “bad parenting” moments—whether it was allowing the kids to have cookies for breakfast, indulging in endless TV time, or even tossing out homework instead of pushing them to complete it. Sure, I didn’t operate this way every day, but I was able to forgive myself because, in most cases, I felt I was managing parenting just fine.
However, today—particularly this evening—wasn’t one of those humorous “I’m such a bad mom” days. It was the kind of day that ended with me crying in the bathroom after getting the kids to bed. The day itself had been uneventful, albeit tedious. I permitted too much screen time, which led to restlessness and bickering among the kids, and of course, dinner was met with complaints about having “leftovers, again,” as my daughter pointedly reminded me.
I trudged through the evening routine, managing to get everyone upstairs, showered, and ready for bed. This scenario felt familiar, often reminiscent of nights when my husband had late work commitments, leaving me to handle everything solo after a long day. The tasks tonight weren’t new to me: my daughter needed assistance with her hair, my older son was searching for a specific book, and my youngest was resisting getting dressed for bed—all of them vying for my attention at once.
After finally getting the boys settled, my daughter grew impatient with my pace, prompting her baby brother to follow me into her room. When she slammed the door, he began to cry, forcing me to start the bedtime process all over again. Meanwhile, my older son had made himself comfortable in my bed, stubbornly refusing to sleep anywhere else.
After three attempts to move him back to his own bed, I finally managed to sneak into the shower. Exhausted and feeling a sense of defeat, I was suddenly interrupted by my son’s quiet voice saying, “Mommy, the wind is blowing outside, and there are little twigs falling from the trees.”
In that moment, I completely lost it. “Just go to bed! Anywhere!” I snapped. I had already raised my voice earlier with my daughter over something I can’t even recall now. The only reason I hadn’t snapped at my baby was that he was engrossed in a YouTube video about using zombies in Minecraft—believe it or not, this is a real thing he loves.
I was far from winning any parenting awards. Instead of laughing this time, I found myself in tears. It brought back memories of my husband and the comforting routine we shared when he was alive. I longed for those evenings spent lying on our bed together after the kids were asleep, staring at the ceiling, both of us exhausted and saying, “I’m so tired,” followed by his familiar, “Me too.” We would scroll through our phones, sharing laughter over funny videos and playfully arguing over who would have to get the baby back to bed.
Our parenting routine wasn’t glamorous—it rarely is—but it was a partnership. Sure, there were times when I felt resentment creeping in, especially when he’d return late and miss the hustle. Yet, most days, I felt like we were a team, and I recognized the myriad things he contributed that I often took for granted. Even if he only arrived for storytime after I had handled dinner and baths alone, he brought such love and enthusiasm to it. And in those quiet moments afterward, we simply existed together, staring at the ceiling, allowing the weight of the day to dissipate.
I miss my husband’s hearty laugh and the gentle tone he used with the kids at bedtime. I miss our discussions about current events and the way he dressed for work. But most of all, I miss having him as my partner in every mundane moment. I miss those silent evenings spent together, simply being.
Once I had showered and brushed my teeth, I resolved to stop crying and headed to bed, only to find my son nestled there. He opened his eyes and said sleepily, “Hi, Mama. Can I stay here?” After a moment’s pause, I agreed, “Okay, baby, just this once.”
While it’s not the same—and oh, how it’s not—the comfort of not staring at that empty ceiling alone, even for just one night, felt nice.
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Summary:
In the aftermath of losing her husband, Eliza reflects on the challenges of single parenting and the deep sense of loss that accompanies the mundane moments she once shared with her partner. Through tears and exhaustion, she navigates her responsibilities while longing for the companionship and partnership they once had, finding small comforts in her children’s presence.