“Daddy is Sleeping.” On Motherhood, Fatherhood and the Delicate Balance of Parental Labor

“Shhhhh, Daddy is sleeping,” I whisper-yelled to the kids as they giggled manically one Saturday morning. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I reminded myself that it’s normal for children to delight in the wonder of life. There were cardboard boxes strewn around the entirety of the house, and Ellie and Oscar were crawling in and out of them, playing hide-and-seek.

The kids promised to be quiet, but they were four and two years old, so promises meant diddly-squat. One minute later, cackles rippled through my eardrums at a higher decibel than before. They were having delicious fun. I was not.

Daddy was sleeping because Daddy had worked a twelve-hour night shift again. Mommy was not sleeping because the children couldn’t watch themselves. Our thin walls and my delicate nervous system didn’t stand a chance against small humans living their best lives.

It was June, the month both my children had decided to evacuate my uterus. With two birthdays to plan, a preschool graduation, and a dance recital, it was the busiest month of the year. I was back working as a part-time educational assistant and full-time as the Ward Family Life Coordinator. This unpaid domestic role was particularly grueling, given the wildly unpredictable nature of our lives.

Our beloved and hardworking Greg continued his full-time breadwinner shifts that felt more like double full-time for the rest of the family. That’s because my broad-shouldered, dark-haired, crime-fighting husband’s flip-flopping twelve-hour night and day shifts followed a pattern so complex it might as well have not been a pattern.

My husband also had no clue what it was like to live a day in my shoes. He hadn’t experienced early parenthood like I had….As involved as he was, our everyday realities were a canyon apart.

When you factored in the requisite alternating sleeping patterns, the kids and I rarely saw him, particularly on a string of night shifts. He wasn’t just gone all night, missing dinner, bath, and bedtime, he was unavailable for a large part of the day before and after—catching up on essential sleep. The shift could start at 4, 6, or 7 PM and go until the same time the next morning. He’d come home as the sun rose, crawl into bed, and then attempt to sleep as long as his body or the children—or I—would let him. And I often let him because he needed it.

Police College made sure to warn new recruits of the perils connected to sleep deprivation. Losing sleep isn’t just about feeling tired—it screws up your health, increasing the likelihood of depression, anxiety, heart attacks, strokes, obesity, and hypertension. Rest up at all costs, they said. Sleep loss wreaks havoc on your memory, mood, and attention span, they said. I didn’t want a bleak future for Greg’s health, so even when he told me not to worry about keeping Oscar and Ellie quiet, I still tried. When he was home overnight, if the kids woke for any reason, I took charge of caring for them, for the same reason. My dashing policeman needed to be in peak form.

Greg missed us when he was working or sleeping. Sweet, right? Except that once he shared that with me, I started making fewer plans. I stayed home when I had opportunities to go out with the kids so that he wouldn’t miss those small windows of opportunity to see them. He didn’t ask me to, but I did it anyway. I wanted to be considerate.

In the limited time he had with the kids, he was Mr. Fun Dad, putting on butterfly wings and flying around the living room, taking the kids to the park, reading endless Peppa Pig stories, and generally being five-star fun. Greg would be all the things I wish I had the time and energy to be. All the things I used to be.

When the kids began to fight over who owned which cardboard box, I snapped at them. “Shhhhhhhh. Daddy. IS. SLEEEPING!” I exhaled in lieu of the scream I wanted to let out.

“Mommy, why are you always grumpy in the morning?” Ellie asked.

She was right, I was grumpy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept a whole night or gotten to wake up when my body decided it was time. Ssshhhhh, Daddy is sleeping felt like it had become my middle name. Routine was the ghost of our childless past. The lack of reprieve meant that along with Greg’s flip-flopping shifts, my moods tended to follow suit. My determination to make sure Greg got his shut-eye had turned me into a less-than-ideal version of myself.

Outside Libby: I don’t know, Ellie. I’m just tired, I guess. I’m sorry I snapped.

I knelt down and hugged her. She looked up at me, innocently, sincerely.

“Why isn’t Daddy grumpy in the morning?”

Inside Libby: I DON’T KNOW. WHY DON’T YOU GO WAKE HIM UP AND ASK HIM?!

*

I was packing bags for Ellie’s dance recital while the kids ran circles around me and lobbied me for snacks. I was genuinely thrilled to be taking my baby girl to her first ballet recital.

Let’s be honest. Recreational ballet for a three-year-old isn’t exactly an Olympic sport. Certainly, her classes hadn’t involved much more than rolling around on the ground and twirling with her pals once a week for the last eight months. But that didn’t matter. She had fun. It filled my heart that she had something just for her. I’d always dreamed of taking dance classes when I was a kid. Now, she got to. Watching her shine filled holes in my heart that I didn’t know existed.

We were on the verge of leaving, so I gently shook Greg awake after his night-shift sleep. He smiled at me with his rested eyes, and I did my best to hide the daggers in mine.

Outside Libby: We’ve got to get going or we’ll be late for the recital.

Inside Libby: How nice it would be to wake up and be told where to be and when.

When he walked down the half flight of stairs into the living room, I was preparing the snack my children begged me for. The kids ran into his arms with the most exasperating delight. I called Ellie over and lovingly forced her to sit still so I could pull back her wispy blond hair into one of those tight dancer buns, the ones that make little girls hate their mothers. Meanwhile, Greg played Magna tiles with Oscar. As I huffed and puffed and loaded the well-packed bag into the car, Greg told Ellie how beautiful she looked. He was right.

Unlike many of the dads we knew, he didn’t let being the bacon-bringer-homer stop him from being involved at home. Greg cooked, cleaned, played with the kids, took them places, and engaged in home life. As the attentive, compassionate, and patient father he was, he was the furthest thing from Homer Simpson types.

In our rural churchy circles, we were the progressive ones. Since the moment we began cohabitating all those years ago, Greg had made his own lunch. He had tidied up his own dishes. I’d never once had to put the toilet seat down. He put his laundry in the basket more often than I did. My life partner was a self-sufficient, considerate human being.

When I first found out that I had friends who packed their husbands’ suitcases, I had to scoop my jaw off the floor. When we got married, Greg and I earned the same income and split the bills down the middle. Greg began to outearn me around the same time I birthed our children and began to raise them, giving up dreams of a university degree, sufficient nutrient banks, and the elasticity of my nether regions. Mutually, we agreed our money was our money, that our children were our children, that the house was our house.

Greg was the type of dad to say “I love you” every day. And he was never, ever too good for some nail polish from his daughter. His ability to play pretend far outweighed my own. So, too, did his ability to look like he was enjoying it. God bless the man. Often, I witnessed him delighting in the time he had with the kids, full of patience, energy, and positivity. He wasn’t faking it.

My husband also had no clue what it was like to live a day in my shoes. He hadn’t experienced early parenthood like I had. Greg certainly didn’t hold the mental cards for our family. Alone. Nearly every day. With no breaks. As involved as he was, our everyday realities were a canyon apart.

I was on duty morning, afternoon, and night. I coordinated childcare. I took time off work when someone got sick. The kids came to me first, even if they had to walk right past their dad and into another room to find me. When bums needed wiping, it was always “Mom!” not “Dad!” I knew how Ellie liked to be reassured and how she liked to play. I coordinated our calendar and tracked the milestones. I did the research. I booked and attended appointments, communicated with our loved ones, and maintained holiday traditions. I oversaw nearly all the logistics required to make our lives work. Or at least I tried. Golly, I tried.

By no fault of his own, Greg was the backup to my default. He was a helper in our home—the occasional staff, not the manager. I bore responsibility for everyday logistics and survival. My husband did what he could when he could. But it just wasn’t the same as being in charge of multiple overlapping things every single day. And over time, with two kids now in the mix, the complexity of family life multiplied.

As the constant presence, delegator, communicator, and initiator, I started to wonder—When had virtually all of family life become my responsibility? As the default parent, I was always on call, day and night, handling the endless tasks no one noticed. I knew the food aversions, the sensory triggers, the needs and fears. I could see the meltdowns coming and was always, always anticipating them. The gap between what Greg and I did—and, more importantly, thought about—became a gigantic infuriating cavern for me.

Having a husband who engaged with his kids with ferocious tenderness and playful delight was a gift. After long stretches of parenting on my own, I was grateful when he clocked in. I knew he worked incredibly hard at his job. Policing was demanding and, by nature, riddled in conflict. I couldn’t understand what it was like to be in his shoes. Yet I couldn’t help but consider what it would be like to focus on one thing at a time, to have colleagues see and appreciate your hard work. To know when, for the most part, your shift would end. To have a boss tell you where to go or what to do next. To know what it would be like to be alone with your thoughts on the way to and from work or in the long, dark hours of the night, on lunch hours and coffee breaks.

I couldn’t help but wonder how much better I might function or how much happier I’d feel if I had a clearly defined job description and some objective metrics for success. Or if I got some kind of sticker reward chart every time I chose to take a deep breath instead of scream in my kids’ faces.

How much energy could I have if I got to sleep until my body woke up? How silly could I be if I wasn’t also concerned about the toddler falling down the stairs, or whether we’d taken the ground beef out of the freezer for dinner, or if we’d packed a spare onesie for our trip to the zoo, or if we were running low on wipes, or if I still had time to order a Play-Doh set before Ellie’s birthday party, or if Oscar’s classmate needed a gluten-free cupcake instead of the standard ones I planned to buy? How present could I be if I got to engage my wilting brain outside of the house more often? I couldn’t stop myself from recognizing the disparity in the hours of our days, the competing pressures and simultaneous responsibilities.

I wanted to let down my guard and love my kids in fun ways, too. I wanted to play without having to wonder what was for dinner or calculate when I had to start cooking. I constantly felt split in two, never quite fully present—like there was never enough of me to go around. If I cooked, I couldn’t clean, and if I cleaned, I couldn’t play, and if I played, we’d be dirty and hungry. I felt robbed of the opportunity to be with my kids because I was always doing things for them. If I wasn’t doing work, I was mentally managing it. I’d always wanted to be a fun mom, but that desire had become more of a fantasy.

When I was honest with myself, I felt a little bit jealous of Greg.

I’d thought about asking him to take on more, but delegating a task, remembering to remind him, and ensuring it was done right took more work than doing the job myself. I longed for the ability to put my responsibilities into boxes like he could, to focus on doing one thing without thinking of the forty-five others tugging on my sleeve. It was another problem to solve in my Rubik’s Cube of motherhood. But solving one issue made five more problems.

I felt robbed of the opportunity to be with my kids because I was always doing things for them….I’d always wanted to be a fun mom, but that desire had become more of a fantasy.

So when it came time to fully engage in Ellie’s dance recital, I was determined that she be my only focus and responsibility. Greg might have naturally taken responsibility for looking after Oscar anyway, but I wanted to be sure.

*

“Can you please take care of Oscar? If there are any issues at the recital, I want to make sure you have him so I can be present for Ellie,” I asked earnestly. Greg obliged, happily.

Backstage, I blotted bright red lipstick onto Ellie’s little lips and begged her not to wipe it off with the back of her hand. I kissed her on the head and admired her twirling in front of the mirror in her purple-and-teal tutu, the silver-sequined lining bouncing as she went.

Once she was ready, I took my seat in the auditorium with Greg and Oscar. The lights lowered. Ellie followed in line with a dozen other three-year-olds. She pranced across the stage with no concept of rhythm or beat or poise, lipstick rubbed up the side of her face, hair already coming loose. It was the most average and spectacular recreational ballet performance the world had ever seen. That’s my girl, I thought.

When the number finished and her group lined up to bow, she scanned the crowd for my face. As she caught my eye, her face lit up and a big, sparkling smile spread across her face. She was proud. So was I.

In that moment, she had my full attention. In that moment, I felt truly present. I wondered if she would remember our moment, the way our eyes locked or the flood of happiness that followed.

I wondered how many other times had she looked for my eyes at home when I was too busy to meet her gaze? How many times had I missed a moment for connection because I was lost in my thoughts? How many times, even that day, had she longed for my attention or sought my reassurance when I was distracted or tired? Too many. But my heart rejoiced knowing I was really there for her for her big moment on stage. I longed to feel more of that in our everyday lives.

On the way to the car after the recital, we stopped at a beautiful fountain to take pictures. I coached Ellie into various poses, snapped pictures, and cheered her on. I took photos of both the kids, of the kids with Greg, of Greg with just Ellie in her perfect little tutu.

I hoped Greg would offer to take some pictures that included me. Generally, pictures were something I had to ask for. But part of me felt like I shouldn’t have to ask—especially on occasions like this. I waited. I wanted to be in the picture, too. But as he made his way to the car once we thought we were finished, it was clear he wasn’t going to.

“Could you take some pictures of me and the kids?” I asked.

He fumbled for his phone, snapped a few, and carried on. As we pulled out from the parking lot, I exhaled in frustration. Why wouldn’t he take a picture of me and Ellie without needing a prompt? Don’t the memories matter to him? Doesn’t he care? Why do I always have to ask?

On the drive, I thought about all the tasks that needed to be done the rest of that day, the rest of the weekend, the rest of the month. There were outfits to plan, appointments to make, gifts to buy, parties and ceremonies to plan for and attend, food and decorations to prepare. Was my husband thinking about any of this?

Did he lie awake at night wondering if our kids were developing properly, if we were running out of milk, if the kids had summer clothes that fit? Did he worry about if the kids felt loved and seen at daycare? Did he wonder if they would grow up with memories of both of us loving them?

I hated being annoyed that he didn’t offer to take a picture. It’s just a picture, I told myself. But it wasn’t. The picture represented all the things he didn’t have to think about or realize that I thought about; everything I carried that no one saw because it was always carried. If I didn’t make the list, the list wouldn’t get made. If I didn’t ask for the picture, it wouldn’t get taken.

The picture represented every second of invisible labor that pulled me away from the little people who mattered most to me, all the work that stole my ability to be present in those moments and remember them, too. With a pit in my stomach, I decided to say something.

“It would be nice if you offered to take pictures of me with the kids,” I said.

He responded, “But I did take the picture. All you had to do was ask.”

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Excerpted from Honest Motherhood: On Losing My Mind and Finding Myself by Libby Ward. Copyright © 2026 by Libby Ward. Published by Crown, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.