Ornaments, Candles, Tees and More! Order Soon for Christmas Delivery!🎄 ➔

Some men feel like they aren’t good enough, valued enough, or equally capable enough. Some men feel annoyed with their wife when it comes to parenting, and some men feel frustrated. Others just brush it off wishing she would just trust him while others take it personal resulting in a fight where he’s left disheartened about his parenting skills.

But it’s not always what it seems with us, it’s not always what you think. Sometimes we think you can read our mind and sometimes we expect you too after so many years. Sometimes when you are on the floor wrestling with a toddler while a 1st grader asks you repeatedly to play video games, we are reminded of why we married you in the first place, but sometimes we don’t say it. We know you know what you are doing.

We don’t check on our kids 50 times when we’re gone because we don’t think you know what you are doing. We know that they are probably having more fun having you all to themselves.

We don’t tell you the dosage of Motrin to give when they are sick because we think you are stupid and can’t read directions. We know you are better at measuring than we are.

We just worry. It’s our nature and we can’t help it. We can’t help that we love them – we can’t help that our worry is as strong as your wish that we would not text you continuously while you’re at home with them. 

We just want what’s best for them. We know you do too even though you let them stay up until 9 when bedtime is at 8. We even admire you for that. You do that because you love them and want to spend time with them, where as 10% of why we are strict on bed time is for alone time (okay maybe 50%).

We just care. We are mothers and even though some may think this means it comes natural it doesn’t always. You lucked out to marry such a caring mother just as much as we did to marry an amazing father. 

We don’t say it often enough, sometimes never at all but we know you do just as good of a job as we do. Even if it’s in a different way. Even if you answer our toddler every time he asks for candy instead of ignoring him like we told you to. Even if you make him follow the rules in public, inviting a tantrum when we told you to let it go so we could enjoy ourselves for once. 

You diverge from our path of what we think is the right way, the best way, and sometimes the only way, but that doesn’t mean we don’t think you know what you are doing. 

The truth is – we think you’re awesome. 

The truth is – sometimes you do it better than us.

The truth is – we know we are lucky and we know we should tell you more often.

Men and women are different, especially when it comes to parenting. We get anxious when our 3-year-old is on the playground – you say just let them live a little. We want to kiss every boo boo our son gets – you say it’s just a scratch. These things don’t make either of us the better parent, or the smarter parent, or the right parent – they just mean we are two people with two different parenting styles who have to meet in the middle even if we are resistant and defiant on the path it takes to get there.

If you liked this, you'll love our new book, SO GOD MADE A MOTHER available for pre-order now!

Pre-Order Now

Stephanie Portell

A single mom to two boys and a part-time writer. I’m a lover of literature and bookstores. I write engaging content on parenting, child development, and anything that combines research and personal experience. I have also been a professional in the medical field for 10+ years and have written in the Medical niche as well. I’ve been published on Huffington Post, Disney’s Babble, Parent.co, WorkingMotherMag, BrainChildMag, Mamamia, The Good Men Project, HerViewFromHome, TheToddle, Scary Mommy, and several more. Proactive, witty, and innovative, I would love for you to check out my website at morethanmothers.com

I Thought Our Friendship Would Be Unbreakable

In: Friendship, Journal, Relationships
Two friends selfie

The message notification pinged on my phone. A woman, once one of my best friends, was reaching out to me via Facebook. Her message simply read, “Wanted to catch up and see how life was treating you!”  I had very conflicting feelings. It seemed with that one single message, a flood of memories surfaced. Some held some great moments and laughter. Other memories held disappointment and hurt of a friendship that simply had run its course. Out of morbid curiosity, I clicked on her profile page to see how the years had been treating her. She was divorced and still...

Keep Reading

The First 10 Years: How Two Broken People Kept Their Marriage from Breaking

In: Journal, Marriage, Relationships
The First Ten Years: How Two Broken People Kept Their Marriage from Breaking www.herviewfromhome.com

We met online in October of 2005, by way of a spam email ad I was THIS CLOSE to marking as trash. Meet Single Christians! My cheese alert siren sounded loudly, but for some reason, I unchecked the delete box and clicked through to the site. We met face-to-face that Thanksgiving. As I awaited your arrival in my mother’s kitchen, my dad whispered to my little brother, “Hide your valuables. Stacy has some guy she met online coming for Thanksgiving dinner.” We embraced for the first time in my parents’ driveway. I was wearing my black cashmere sweater with the...

Keep Reading

To The Mother Who Is Overwhelmed

In: Inspiration, Motherhood
Tired woman with coffee sitting at table

I have this one head. It is a normal sized head. It didn’t get bigger because I had children. Just like I didn’t grow an extra arm with the birth of each child. I mean, while that would be nice, it’s just not the case. We keep our one self. And the children we add on each add on to our weight in this life. And the head didn’t grow more heads because we become a wife to someone. Or a boss to someone. We carry the weight of motherhood. The decisions we must make each day—fight the shorts battle...

Keep Reading

You’re a Little Less Baby Today Than Yesterday

In: Journal, Motherhood
Toddler sleeping in mother's arms

Tiny sparkles are nestled in the wispy hair falling across her brow, shaken free of the princess costume she pulled over her head this morning. She’s swathed in pink: a satiny pink dress-up bodice, a fluffy, pink, slightly-less-glittery-than-it-was-two-hours-ago tulle skirt, a worn, soft pink baby blanket. She’s slowed long enough to crawl into my lap, blinking heavy eyelids. She’s a little less baby today than she was only yesterday.  Soon, she’ll be too big, too busy for my arms.  But today, I’m rocking a princess. The early years will be filled with exploration and adventure. She’ll climb atop counters and...

Keep Reading

Dear Husband, I Loved You First

In: Marriage, Motherhood, Relationships
Man and woman kissing in love

Dear husband, I loved you first. But often, you get the last of me. I remember you picking me up for our first date. I spent a whole hour getting ready for you. Making sure every hair was in place and my make-up was perfect. When you see me now at the end of the day, the make-up that is left on my face is smeared. My hair is more than likely in a ponytail or some rat’s nest on the top of my head. And my outfit, 100% has someone’s bodily fluids smeared somewhere. But there were days when...

Keep Reading

Stop Being a Butthole Wife

In: Grief, Journal, Marriage, Relationships
Man and woman sit on the end of a dock with arms around each other

Stop being a butthole wife. No, I’m serious. End it.  Let’s start with the laundry angst. I get it, the guy can’t find the hamper. It’s maddening. It’s insanity. Why, why, must he leave piles of clothes scattered, the same way that the toddler does, right? I mean, grow up and help out around here, man. There is no laundry fairy. What if that pile of laundry is a gift in disguise from a God you can’t (yet) see? Don’t roll your eyes, hear me out on this one. I was a butthole wife. Until my husband died. The day...

Keep Reading

I Can’t Be Everyone’s Chick-fil-A Sauce

In: Friendship, Journal, Living, Relationships
woman smiling in the sun

A couple of friends and I went and grabbed lunch at Chick-fil-A a couple of weeks ago. It was delightful. We spent roughly $20 apiece, and our kids ran in and out of the play area barefoot and stinky and begged us for ice cream, to which we responded, “Not until you finish your nuggets,” to which they responded with a whine, and then ran off again like a bolt of crazy energy. One friend had to climb into the play tubes a few times to save her 22-month-old, but it was still worth every penny. Every. Single. One. Even...

Keep Reading

Love Notes From My Mother in Heaven

In: Faith, Grief, Journal, Living
Woman smelling bunch of flowers

Twelve years have passed since my mother exclaimed, “I’ve died and gone to Heaven!” as she leaned back in her big donut-shaped tube and splashed her toes, enjoying the serenity of the river.  Twelve years since I stood on the shore of that same river, 45 minutes later, watching to see if the hopeful EMT would be able to revive my mother as she floated toward his outstretched hands. Twelve years ago, I stood alone in my bedroom, weak and trembling, as I opened my mother’s Bible and all the little keepsakes she’d stowed inside tumbled to the floor.  It...

Keep Reading

Sometimes Friendships End, No Matter How Hard You Try

In: Friendship, Journal, Relationships
Sad woman alone without a friend

I tried. We say these words for two reasons. One: for our own justification that we made an effort to complete a task; and two: to admit that we fell short of that task. I wrote those words in an e-mail tonight to a friend I had for nearly 25 years after not speaking to her for eight months. It was the third e-mail I’ve sent over the past few weeks to try to reconcile with a woman who was more of a sister to me at some points than my own biological sister was. It’s sad when we drift...

Keep Reading

Goodbye to the House That Built Me

In: Grown Children, Journal, Living, Relationships
Ranch style home as seen from the curb

In the winter of 1985, while I was halfway done growing in my mom’s belly, my parents moved into a little brown 3 bedroom/1.5 bath that was halfway between the school and the prison in which my dad worked as a corrections officer. I would be the first baby they brought home to their new house, joining my older sister. I’d take my first steps across the brown shag carpet that the previous owner had installed. The back bedroom was mine, and mom plastered Smurf-themed wallpaper on the accent wall to try to get me to sleep in there every...

Keep Reading