We Will Always Choose Our Children

The Place No One Tells You About

There was a young mom sitting across from me in the pediatrician’s waiting room the other day. She held her infant close, that particular posture you learn only after too many nights without sleep- half cradle, half shield. I was there with my own daughter, now a teenager, brought in for a stubborn cough.

I didn’t mean to listen, but stress carries a certain frequency. You can feel it before you hear it.

She was on the phone with her job.

“My baby is sick.”

That was it. No dramatic explanation. No excuses. Just the truth.

And in that moment, I saw her.

The Quiet Panic We Don’t Talk About

If you’ve ever been a single parent - or the primary parent - you know what comes next after those words leave your mouth. The mental math starts immediately:

• How many sick days do I have left?

• Will they believe me?

• Will this count against me?

• Am I about to be labeled unreliable?

You can love your job. You can need your job. But none of that quiets the panic when your child is sick and the system you depend on has no room for it.

I remember making that same call. More than once. I remember my voice tightening, trying to sound calm while holding a feverish child who needed more than Tylenol and hope.

I remember the day a manager looked at me and said, “If you walk out, don’t bother coming back.”

My son’s temperature was hospital-worthy.

I walked out.

The Choice Was Never Really a Choice

Let’s be honest: this isn’t bravery. It’s instinct.

Parents - especially single mothers - don’t choose their children over their jobs because it’s noble. We choose them because there is no other option that lets us live with ourselves.

Jobs can replace us.

Children cannot replace us.

And yet, the consequences of that choice often land squarely on the parent who already has the least room to absorb them.

Lost income. Lost jobs. Lost stability.

All because a baby got sick.

The Invisible Cost of “Doing the Right Thing”?

There Is No Childcare for Sick Children!

This is the part no one plans for.

When a child is sick, there is nowhere to put them.

Daycares won’t take them. Babysitters won’t risk it. Schools send them home. Family help isn’t always available. And even when it is, asking someone else to take care of a sick child often means asking them to miss work too.

So the choice collapses into a single reality:

If your child is sick, you stay home.

There is no backup system. No emergency childcare for fevers, stomach bugs, ear infections, or hospital-worthy temperatures. No infrastructure that acknowledges children are humans with bodies that get sick-often and unpredictably.

Yet parents are still expected to function as if that system exists.

We are asked why we didn’t plan better.

This is the plan.

The plan is a parent who shows up, even when it costs them everything.

We talk a lot about work ethic. About loyalty. About showing up.

What we don’t talk about enough is how many parents - mostly mothers - are quietly punished for doing exactly what society claims to value: putting children first.

There’s no line on a résumé for “showed up anyway while terrified.”
No award for “chose the ER over a shift.”
No safety net for “did the right thing.”

And still, we do it.

Because when it comes down to it, no paycheck is worth a child’s health.

So, To the Mom in the Waiting Room:

You probably don’t know this, but someone saw you that day.

Someone who remembers the weight of that call. The fear behind those words. The way your stomach drops when you wait for the response on the other end of the line.

If the world makes this harder than it needs to be, that’s not a failure on your part.

You are not weak for choosing your child.

You are not irresponsible.

You are doing exactly what a parent is supposed to do.

And even if no one else says it - I see you.

We Will Always Choose Our Children

Every time.

Even when it costs us.
Even when it scares us.
Even when the system isn’t built to support us.

Because someday, long after the jobs are forgotten, our children will remember who stayed.

And that will always matter more.

Paid Off, Worn Out, and Still Running (Kind of Like Me)

 I was sitting in the Walgreens parking lot today, waiting on a prescription, when I noticed all the shiny new cars around me- the ones with heated steering wheels, backup cameras, and monthly payments that look like rent.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my 2008 Jeep, with a hood that’s shedding paint like a snake in spring. The luxury? It’s paid for. That’s right. No car payment. No “your bill is due” reminders. Just me and my gloriously unbothered old Jeep.

Sure, the tires are new- because I do prefer my children alive-  but otherwise the thing is aging like a feral cat: difficult, loud, and somehow still surviving.

My dad used to say new cars were a lousy investment. “Keep an old one,” he’d tell me. “If you learn how to work on it, you can always keep it running.”

I thought he was being dramatic. Turns out, he was teaching me economics, survival, and emotional endurance all at once. It wasn’t about the car- it was about not relying on things (or people) that fall apart the first time life sneezes on them.

And somewhere along the way, those lessons bled straight into motherhood.

Because moms- especially single moms- are experts in the quiet trade-offs nobody sees.

We keep the same winter coat for seven years, but make sure our kids get new ones the second theirs seem “a little snug.”

We wear tennis shoes until the tread is basically a suggestion, but our kids somehow have three pairs from the latest trend cycle and the backup pair “just in case.”

We skip buying our favorite snacks so the pantry can be filled with their favorites. We pretend we don’t even like snacks.

And on the nights when there’s just enough food for everyone except us, we suddenly “aren’t hungry.” Kids never notice. They’re too busy eating the meal we quietly made sure they had.

These sacrifices don’t come with fanfare. Nobody applauds them. They’re just woven into the rhythm of everyday life- the invisible currency of keeping your children safe, fed, confident, warm, and ready to face the world without carrying the weight you carry.

My Jeep may be rough. My coat may be old. My tennis shoes may have seen better traction back when I did, too. But my kids have what they need- and a lot of what they want- because I decided that my comfort could wait.

One day, maybe they’ll understand. Maybe they’ll look back and realize love isn’t loud. It’s not always shiny. Sometimes it looks like driving an old Jeep in a parking lot full of new cars… and being proud of it.

So why does the grass always look greener on the other side- especially to our kids? Maybe because they’ve always played on grass we watered. They don’t see the long nights, the stretched dollars, the patched jackets, or the worn-down tread. They just see a world where things show up for them, because we quietly made sure they did. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the real sign that we’re doing it right is that they never had to wonder how the bills got paid or why we were still wearing that same winter coat. 

To every mom out there doing the same invisible math every day- choosing stability over sparkle, love over luxury- just know this: the grass is greener because of you!

The Everyday Parent vs. The Fun Parent: What Kids Don’t Always See

Kids can be brutally honest, but also completely blind. They’ll walk into the kitchen, open a fridge that you made sure was stocked, pull on the clothes you just washed, toss their backpack down (that you probably bought on a last-minute Target run), and still act like you’ve done absolutely nothing for them.

Then they come back from a weekend at Dad’s. Oh, the stories. Every second was “amazing.” He was funny. He was cool. They went out to eat. No bedtimes. No nagging. All fun, no stress.

And of course, that must mean life is like that at his house all the time, right? Because Dad doesn’t have bills, or work, or actual responsibilities. He’s just permanently stuck in vacation mode.

And when the glow wears off, when homework and chores and regular life kick back in, what happens? Suddenly Mom is the villain. Mom, who does the morning and afternoon carpool line. Mom, who makes the breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Mom, who pays the field trip fees, buys the soccer cleats, remembers the permission slips, and holds them while they cry after a fight with a friend. But apparently, all of that gets wiped out by one game of candy poker at Dad’s.

Let’s not forget the financial side. Ballet classes, baseball uniforms, field trips, birthday presents for every kid in their class - who pays for those? Mom. New shoes when theirs mysteriously vanish into thin air? Mom. The emergency $30 for “school spirit day” tomorrow that you find out about at 9 p.m.? Yep, Mom again. Dad might clap proudly at the recital or ball game, but the ticket to even be there was bought with Mom’s sacrifices.

But do kids realize that? No. To them, ballet and field trips just exist. Clothes magically appear in their drawers. They don’t know that you’re quietly juggling bills, stretching dollars, and giving up things for yourself so they don’t have to go without. They don’t see that Dad gets to swoop in, play hero, and never once feel the weight of what it took to make that “fun” possible.

And then it happens. Out of nowhere, usually during an argument or a hard day, your child drops the bomb:

“Maybe I should just live with Dad.”

It doesn’t matter if they’re seven or seventeen - those words never stop hitting like a knife to the chest. In one sentence, every sacrifice you’ve ever made gets erased. The field trips, the hospital nights, the birthday parties you pulled off when money was tight… gone. And the worst part? It’s not even about Dad - it’s about the illusion of Dad. The highlight reel. The “fun parent” performance.

But when your kid says it, it doesn’t feel like they’re rejecting the illusion. It feels like they’re rejecting you. It feels like they’re saying, You’re not enough. You’re too strict. You’re too boring. You’re not fun. And it cuts deep because you know damn well you’re the one who makes sure they even have a life to enjoy in the first place.

Sure, go live with Dad. See how fast the groceries restock themselves. See who actually signs your permission slips, who buys your school fundraiser junk, who knows which brand of cereal you’ll actually eat when you’re moody. Go ahead - test the theory.

And here’s the kicker: even when they’re teenagers, dripping in sarcasm and rolling their eyes at everything you say, you know the truth. At the end of a brutal school day, when they walk in with tears threatening to spill, it’s not Dad they turn to. It’s Mom. Because deep down, they know who can handle the hard parts. They know who will actually listen, who will talk them through the mess, who will carry their emotions like it’s second nature.

Dad might get the highlight reel. Mom gets the whole movie - every scene, every meltdown, every triumph. And yes, it hurts like hell when the star of that movie looks you in the face and says they’d rather change directors. But the truth is, they wouldn’t even have a story without you.

So to the moms holding it all together, even when it feels like no one notices: you are the heartbeat of your child’s world. You are the reason there’s food on the table, clean clothes in the drawer, and comfort when life feels too heavy. You’re the steady voice that talks them down when they’re falling apart, the arms that hold them when they can’t hold themselves, the safe place they will always come back to - whether they realize it now or not.

And yes, sometimes it feels like you’re invisible. Sometimes it feels like they’ve forgotten every sacrifice, every late night, every quiet way you’ve held their lives together. But here’s the truth: they haven’t forgotten. They can’t. Your love is stitched into the fabric of who they are. It shows up in their courage, in their laughter, in the way they carry themselves through the world.

One day - maybe when they have kids of their own, maybe in a quiet moment years from now - they will finally see it. They’ll see you. And when they do, they’ll realize the real hero of their story was never the one with the fun weekends. It was the one who showed up every single day, with love that never quit.

Because at the end of the day, it was always you.