I was drowning in diapers, dishes, and no sleep, while my husband hid behind a sign that said, Do Not Disturb. He called it “setting boundaries,” but I called it abandonment. Rick worked from home, but parented like he lived miles away. Every knock I made on his office door felt like a plea he refused to hear.
Each day, I juggled a crying newborn and a needy toddler, barely holding myself together. I asked for help and was told to “respect the sign.” The breaking point came when he snapped at me mid-meltdown, claiming he needed “mental space” more than I did. That’s when something inside me snapped—but instead of yelling, I made a plan.
I printed a new sign: Dad Doesn’t Do Diapers, Dishes, or Discipline and taped it right outside his office door. Then I hosted a loud, messy backyard playdate with every mom and kid in the neighborhood. While Rick tried to run a video meeting, laughter and chaos filled the air. When he saw the sign and the stares, he turned red, ripped it down, and stormed off.
But something shifted. The sign never went back up. Rick started helping first clumsily, then with care. One night, I found him rocking our baby to sleep, humming my lullaby. He looked at me, softer now, and said, “I get it.” And for the first time in forever, we were a team not just coexisting, but finally parenting together.