I realized the difficult dance my husband, Patrick, and I were trying to master with our split-shift parenting when our then 2-year-old daughter, Riley, started crying out in the night for “Mommydaddy!” She never knew who would be there to comfort her when she woke up from a bad dream. From 8:00 p.m. until 3:30 a.m., Mommy would be the one to dry her tears. Between 3:30 a.m. and 8:00 a.m., Daddy would scoop her up with a loving hug when she cried. Riley certainly covered her bases with a shout for Mommydaddy.

Still, when I first heard it, my heart sank. Riley couldn’t count on me to always be there for her. Did she sleep restlessly, wondering exactly when I slipped out into the darkness? Was she angst-ridden because Mommy tucked her in at night but was missing in the morning? She’s 4 now and has adjusted just fine to the strange midnight shuffle, as has our 7-year-old son, Jack. Patrick always peeks in on them when he gets home and sometimes wakes them for a little gleeful moonlight bonding. This is life at our house; it’s what the kids know.

Even after a few years, though, this schedule is tough to manage. Patrick and I were raised in traditional households where Dad worked and Mom stayed home. Since both of us work full-time, with opposite shifts, we split child-care duties so we don’t have to pay for outside help. I leave for work as a morning and noon news anchor for the CBS affiliate WIVB in Buffalo, NY, at 3:30 a.m. My husband comes home from his overnight shift as a machinist at 3:22 a.m. You wouldn’t believe it, but a lot happens in those eight minutes.

We glide toward each other for a kiss. “Riley was up. I gave her a drink,” I say as I slide behind him to get my shoes.

“Did Jack do his homework?” Patrick will ask, reaching his arm behind me to set down his lunchbox.

“Yes,” I say, spinning around to grab my purse.

“Tae kwon do today,” Patrick says, moving past me to open the refrigerator door and reach inside.

“Can you pick up juice later?” I ask, pulling my tea out of the microwave.

“Sure. Have a good day,” he says, as he leans in for another kiss. He goes upstairs and I head out the door, two ships in the night.

But our early-morning routine doesn’t always go so smoothly, and many times we both feel misunderstood, under-appreciated and overwhelmed.

“Did you know yesterday was Pajama Day at school?” he’ll ask me.   

“Why didn’t you remind me the dentist called?” I demand.

Patrick knows our son’s teachers better than I do and schedules morning playdates for our daughter. I ferry the kids to activities after school and round them up for bed. He urges their sleepy heads out of bed and plies them with a healthy breakfast. But my chest hurts when I think of Patrick navigating the morning hullabaloo alone. I’m not there to set the tone for the day or usher the kids off with a kiss. He’s jealous that he’s not there to whisk them away to dreamland. We both end up complaining that we have the tougher half of the day.

“They never want to go to bed on time,” I whine.

“I can’t ever get them up!” Patrick counters. He gets four hours of sleep before the alarm for school goes off.

We won’t talk about how tired we both are or which movie we last saw alone together. (The fact that it involved a sinking ship and an iceberg should not be taken symbolically at all.) Family time is a three-hour block in the afternoon between school and my job, before Patrick leaves for work. Sometimes we have an early barbecue or take a walk. Most of our family time is confined to the weekends, when you’re likely to find us at Chuck E. Cheese or a matinee.

In addition to the sacrifices and the nuts-and-bolts work of raising kids, I’ve had to learn to share the reward points, too—the moments of joy and nurturing. Most moms love hugging their child on their lap, knowing their words and kisses can soothe like no one else’s. But when Jack scrapes a knee and Riley has a cough, it’s not always Mommy they call for. The first time Jack took a serious tumble, he was standing near Patrick, who folded him into his arms. I rushed over to retrieve him, but Patrick shooed me away: “I can do this, you know.”

My stomach tightened. He was right. He’d been doing everything else a mommy would do—why not the comforting role, too? I still bite my tongue when Patrick is tending to a bruised knee or hurt feelings, and I can sense him feeling rejected as Riley’s becoming more of a mama’s girl. But I love him all the more for the way he cares for our children.
We’ve all had to make emotional adjustments as Patrick and I master this split-shift parenting shuffle. But in the end, I think our kids are lucky because they have big chunks of time with each parent. The daddy doll plays as big a role in Riley’s dollhouse as the mommy doll. Who knows how it all will shape their futures? My hope is that Jack will be a better father and Riley will demand a more emotional man. At least they’ve seen a woman balance work and family life. It’s not perfect, but it’s our version of having it all.
 

Mom of two Lisa Scott  works as a morning and noon news anchor.