Being My Kid’s Second-Favorite Mom
And Why That’s the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me
Let’s be real. I’ve spent my last few posts pretending parenting is effortless and our family is picture perfect. But here’s the truth: my biggest fear is that Ellie might not like me. She’s my daughter, but that doesn’t guarantee her love. Actually, she hasn’t been my biggest fan. Dan, my husband, is her MVP, her personal superhero in cotton sweatpants. Whenever Ellie is overcome by frustration, fear, or sheer exhaustion, she runs straight into his arms. He’s her love bunker. And me? I’m just the opening act in her favorite show.
Long before Ellie was even born, I knew love from your kid isn’t guaranteed. You have to earn it. Giving birth is a start, sure, but it doesn’t magically glue your hearts together. Still, I didn’t expect it to feel this hard. At the beginning, it stung. Not being her number one hurt more than I thought it would. And worse, let’s be honest — parenting is sometimes boring. I’d sit with her, restless, stuck in another round of endless peekaboo. Then came the guilt. Was I doing this wrong? Was my love too thin, too distracted?
I really wanted to be the mom who’s cool and close. The one with both the hugs and the jokes. But I didn’t know how to get there. And in public, at family visits or school pickups, when Ellie ran straight into Dan’s arms, I felt it. The eyes. The quiet judgment. As if everyone was asking, “Why doesn’t she go to her mom?” I’d laugh it off and say, “She’s a daddy’s girl,” while trying to keep my heart from cracking open.
So why didn’t I bond with Ellie right away? Fair question. When she was born, I was stuck somewhere between baby blues and a full-blown identity crisis. I’d been laid off during pregnancy, and the moment she arrived, I threw myself into job hunting. I needed to reclaim who I was before “Mom” became my only name. But anxiety and depression hit hard. I couldn’t focus. My thoughts were scattered. My husband and my mom stepped in to help. Especially Dan. He did it all, night feedings, baths, bedtime routines. While I stared at job boards and my old study notes, he quietly became the go-to parent. And he did it without ever complaining.
I’m still grateful for that. Truly. He took on what the world calls “mom work” and made it look easy. I watched Ellie bond with him. At first, he did it out of duty. But soon, joy took over. Their connection grew while I was busy trying to rebuild my old self. Gratitude, though, came with a side of jealousy. Was Dan winning at love? Was Ellie choosing him? What did that make me?
On the other hand, society is pretty brutal to moms. We’re supposed to be the favorites. The ones kids run to with sticky fingers and wobbly tears. The emotional airbag for every crash and bump. But I wasn’t that mom. I was the one updating my résumé, not warming bottles at 2 a.m. And to the outside world, that must’ve looked like failure — like I’d fumbled the one job no mom is supposed to mess up.
So I made peace with the background role. If I couldn’t be her favorite, fine. I would be the backdrop of her childhood, the quiet constant. I would never pull her away from the love she found in Dan. I refused to compete. My broken heart would not be her burden.
Once my new job settled into place, I became the behind-the-scenes crew to Dan’s parenting front stage. I did the dishes, the laundry, the baby shopping: food, diapers, daycare gadgets, you name it. I started waking up at 7:30 a.m. to cook her lunch and pack her snacks. I even learned real cooking techniques to please her tiny tastebuds.
I stayed close. Always around. Earbuds in, podcasts playing, I kept her company through more rounds of peekaboo than I thought the human mind could survive. I memorized over ten children’s songs, danced awkwardly in the living room, and entered the strange, glittery world of English toddler tunes I’d never known growing up in China.
Still, you might be waiting for that twist now. The big redemption arc. Maybe I’ll say that after all this, I finally became number one in Ellie’s heart. That I stepped into the spotlight and won motherhood’s crown.
I wish. But that’s not what happened.
The truth is, I’m still not her favorite. And that’s okay.
What changed is this: I stopped treating it like a competition. These days, I actually look forward to coming home and reading with her — even if she isn’t really listening, and just wants to poke the penguin in her favorite pop-up book for the hundredth time.
I’m writing this with a warm, full heart. Not to prove anything, but to share a moment. Especially with the moms out there who feel like they’re falling short. This one is for you.
Today, I was knocked flat by a brutal allergy attack. My eyes were swollen, my meds had me moving like molasses, and all I could do was lie on the rug in Ellie’s room and drift off. At some point, she noticed. She toddled over and planted an oversized kiss on my cheek, more of a soft nibble, really, complete with toddler spit. Then she flopped her tiny body over mine, rolled to my side, and started clapping my face like a drum. I woke up laughing.
We played for a bit. The rest of the family assumed she was hanging out with me, which, technically, she was. But I almost fell asleep again. When I finally came to, I saw her standing there, holding a ceramic cup filled with water. She held it out proudly, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I blinked at her, totally confused, as a bit of it spilled onto the rug. I sat up suprisely and asked, “Where did you get the water?”
Her little face froze, worried she might get in trouble. But then it hit me: she brought me water because she knew I didn’t feel well. My heart cracked wide open. I said “xie xie (谢谢),” thank you in Chinese, a word she’d just learned. Her smile came back, big and bright, like sunrise after rain.
Later, we pieced it together. The cup had been empty on my nightstand. Somehow, this tiny human climbed up, got it, filled it from her play kitchen’s water tank, and brought it to me like a nurse on a mission. And in that moment, I felt something I’ll carry forever. My 18-month-old daughter saw I wasn’t well and tried to help. That’s love. Pure and clumsy and miraculous. She may not always run to me first, but she loves me. She really does. I, her proud and dizzy mother, will remember this moment with every single cell in my body.
So maybe I’m not the favorite. Maybe I never will be. But that’s not what motherhood is about, is it?
It’s not a race to be the most adored. It’s not about picture-perfect moments or winning invisible gold stars from strangers at school pickup. It’s about showing up, those spit-soaked kisses, rogue cups of water, sleepy afternoons on the rug and letting those small, chaotic moments do their quiet magic.
I used to think I had to earn Ellie’s love. That I had to chase it, prove myself worthy of it. But it turns out, love doesn’t need chasing. It just needs time. And presence. And the occasional soft cheek bite.
I still have days when I doubt myself. When I feel like the world expects more of me than I can give. But I’ve stopped measuring my worth by who she runs to first. Because in the moments that matter most, she finds me.
And when she does, I’ll be there, with open arms, a smile on my face, and maybe a towel for the spit.
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