My kids have a favorite parent and it is definitely not me.  My husband in a
landslide vote wins that sacred title.  When he is away on business trips they
always ask when he is coming back.  When he pulls out of the driveway in the
morning they longingly look out the window for minutes after he is gone. My
oldest even wistfully says that she wishes that Daddy could be the one to stay
at home and gently suggests that I be the one to have a demanding job outside of
the house.

I used to be irritated by this blatant showing of favoritism.  I mean don’t they
know that I am the one who pushed for over two hours during each of their births
to deliver their 8 pound selves?  Don’t they know that I was the one who used to
have a taut tummy, but is now banished to tankinis?  Don’t they know that I am
the one who nursed each of them for a year and now have breasts that rival the
California raisins as result of giving them what I affectionately coined,
“Mama’s milkshake”? Don’t they know that I am the one who painstakingly cooks,
cleans, checks homework, reminds them to brush their teeth, put lotion on, etc?
Um, clearly they do, because that is why I am the least favorite parent.

Fruit snacks for all!