Default Parent Chronicles: When Do I Get to Retire?

I’ve officially hit the stage of parenting where I’m wondering when my retirement plan kicks in. You know, the elusive phase where the kids magically figure out life on their own and your spouse suddenly becomes the go-to for all the snacks, emotional crises, and life-or-death decisions (like which socks match with those shoes). Spoiler alert: It doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

Let me set the stage: I’m the proud mom of three boys—ages 20, 15, and 9. The eldest? He’s on autopilot. I’ve essentially been promoted from full-time caretaker to occasional consultant in his life. If he needs advice on college, a ride to the airport, or tips on how to budget (he won’t take them, but he’ll ask), I’m there. But the younger two? Oh, they are still very much tethered to me, like I’m some sort of Swiss Army knife of parenting.

Here’s the thing: I love my kids deeply, but why am I always the default? Stubbed a toe? “Mom!” Can’t find the remote? “Mom!” Need a snack? “Mom!” Their dad could be sitting right next to them—arms open, ready to help—and they’ll still make the trek across the house to find me, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. I’ve tested this theory. I’ve sat silently, pretending not to hear. But they have radar. They know I’m there.

Why Don’t They Go to Dad?
Good question. Their dad is fully capable, funny, and sometimes more patient than I am. And yet, somehow, I’m the chosen one. I’ve asked him about this, and his response? “Well, they know you’re better at it.” Better at what? Googling “how to stop a nosebleed”? Guess who has two thumbs and a Wi-Fi connection, too? This guy.

But let’s be real—he’s also a master deflector. Got a kid asking about their science project? “Ask your mom.” Wondering why the dog is barking? “Ask your mom.” Need help figuring out why your sibling is being annoying? “Ask your mom.” It’s like a game of Hot Potato, and I’m always the potato.

Here’s where I’m at: I thought that as the kids got older, my parenting workload would decrease. HA. Rookie mistake. Sure, I’m not waking up for midnight feedings or spending hours chasing toddlers around, but the mental load? Still there. There’s homework to supervise, sports schedules to coordinate, teenage drama to referee, and existential questions from my 9-year-old to answer. (“Mom, if animals could talk, what would our dog say about me?” Probably that you don’t share your snacks.)

Now, before anyone accuses me of being ungrateful, let me make this clear: I adore my children. I’d move mountains for them (and I have, metaphorically speaking). But sometimes, I fantasize about what it would be like to be the “fun parent.” You know, the one who swoops in for the movie nights, the weekend getaways, and the pizza parties—without being bogged down by the day-to-day monotony of parenting logistics.

So, what’s the answer? I don’t know. Maybe I need a sabbatical. A momcation. A week (heck, even a weekend) where I disappear, and my husband takes on the full brunt of “default parent” duties. I’ll leave detailed notes:

• “The 9-year-old likes his grilled cheese cut diagonally but only on Tuesdays.”
• “The 15-year-old will lock himself in his room, but check his Spotify playlist. If it’s all sad songs, bring snacks.”

Maybe then, when I come back, they’ll realize just how magical I truly am. Or maybe they’ll just keep yelling “Mom!” anyway.

Until then, I’ll be here—armed with snacks, wisdom, and a small glimmer of hope that someday, my retirement will come. Probably around the time I’m pushing 90.