I have a confession to make.

I’m not always the best mother. I give in to my son’s nightly demands for Disney movies. I don’t make the boy drink all his milk at dinner. I even on occasion bribe him with chocolate treats (how else can I get those fingernails trimmed?). Let’s face it: sometimes, I’m a downright crappy mother.

But that’s not my confession. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking that my shortcomings as a mother pale in comparison with my shortcomings as a wife.

Growing up, I watched my own mother make thousands of daily sacrifices for us kids. She got out of bed when she was bone-achingly tired. She gave up her meals to fix us more mashed potatoes. She bought us clothes and toys in lieu of things she needed herself.

My father, on the other hand, seemed willing and able to take care of himself first.

When I became a mother, it just felt natural to make sacrifices for my children. I was the tired one, the hungry one, the one wearing the same worn pair of jeans I wore 10 years ago. Truth be told, I wanted to make these sacrifices. It made me feel good to be giving, to be thinking of others before myself. I thought that’s what being a mother was all about.

Over time, I learned to limit the number of sacrifices I made for my children — in order to teach them to respect me. To show them I loved myself enough to take care of me. After all, I realized, I didn’t want to raise a female-dependent son and a martyr daughter.

But there’s more to this lesson. Slowly, over time, I’ve begun to realize that I’m following in my mother’s footsteps in another way as well. For Mom, there were so many monkeys crammed into bed that Dad got squeezed out. There was just too much to do. Mom and Dad never went on dates. They never said, “Kids go to bed. We need to spend some time together.” And looking at my own life, I can see that I’m guilty of the same. I can’t even tell you the last time my husband and I just sat together and held hands.

Now, I know, some of this is only natural when you have young kids and infants at home. Life can really get in the way of romance. But, more than that, I’ll admit, I’m negligent. I make the mistake of assuming that because my husband’s needs can wait, he actually has none. Big mistake. 

The part that truly befuddles me is that my husband seems able to keep this whole thing in better perspective. We often talk about how “selfish” he is — but we mean it in a good way. He is able to think of himself first at times, dropping my son off with a sitter while he plays racquetball with friends. This keeps him more in balance, healthier both emotionally and physically, and much less likely to snap under pressure. It also sets a great example for our kids.

“We need to go out more,” he’ll say. And while I agree, something inside me catches. Going out entails leaving our kids, and — God only knows why I think this — that’s not what good mothers do. 

Maybe it’s the still-present guilt our society places on its mothers. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Maybe it’s being Minnesotan. Who knows? All I know is that I have to take charge of working on it.

So, why don’t you call me. I’ll watch your kids. You can haul your husband to dinner and a movie. Then you do the same for us. And let’s make a deal: no talking about the kids.

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