March is a busy month for music teachers. My husband, who is the sole band director in his high school, has had several big commitments: production week for the school musical; the musical weekend itself; the St. Patrick’s day parade in NYC. Naturally, as a result of his being out of the house more often, I’ve been doing more solo parenting. And for me, I’m ashamed to say, that sometimes leads to a bit of a Martyred Mother complex.

When do I get a break? I think.

“When do you get a break?” other people ask.

“Mommy, I need you!” my son says.

“MAH-MAH!” my daughter cries.

I have complex feelings about the occasional day or weekend of solo parenting. On the one hand, I love having extra quality time with my kids. They are at great ages right now: my five-year-old son can play board games with enthusiasm, help out around the house, and get lost in a 500-piece Lego set; my 17-month old daughter is sweet and cuddly, and I love watching her learn new words and moves every day. It’s fun to plan a day that’s just for me and them. And I do get the occasional pocket of free time. Right now, for example, I’m typing this blog post at the karate studio while my son takes his class and my daughter spaces out in the stroller. I may only get a few more minutes before she starts squalling, but it’s something.

On the other hand, an entire day or two with two kids and house chores means more of those busy, frantic moments around mealtimes, play times and errands. Those are the moments when my blood pressure rises, when I might even allow envy to swirl its evil cloak around me, making me wish I was somewhere else. Taking a walk. At the library. Even at work, where things often feel more under my control than they do at home.

The point: I feel both of those things simultaneously. I feel both gratitude for all the moments I get to spend with my amazing kids, and resentment that I’m not free to do something else. Yet, in my conversations with others and even inside my head, I find myself drifting toward the Martyred Mother narrative: the one where I express resentment, frustration and envy, instead of the one where I express gratitude and delight.

It’s too easy to do. In our society, the mother is always playing the martyr. We’re the ones who sacrifice our careers, our bodies, our time to our children. Fathers do too, of course; it’s just more traditional for women to fill this role. But it’s not a role I’m choosing to play. I’m handing back the script.

Instead, I’m choosing to own my life and my choices.

I have chosen to have two children. I made that choice with the full understanding that I’d be responsible for their daily care for eighteen-odd years. I chose to marry my husband, and I have great respect and admiration for the work he does, even when it does take him out of the house more often. I chose the house that I spend time in. I chose to live in a child-friendly area, near grandparents, whose visits and babysitting services are much appreciated. I chose a job that allows me to be roughly on the same schedule as my children. I’m happy, even delighted, with all of those life choices. And if I weren’t, well, I’d expect myself to examine the whys and hows, and make necessary changes.

We are all complex. We can range from frustrated to content, from transcendent to bored, resentful to grateful. I’ve felt all of these emotions in a single hour with my kids. But when I talk about my day, which feelings am I choosing to highlight? Which narrative will I follow?

I’m not perfect. I’m going to complain sometimes. During long days with my kids, I’m going to wish I were somewhere else at least once. But for today, at least, I’m not playing the role of the martyred mother. Today, I’m going to tell the story of one lucky woman who got to have a precious day of experiences and memories with her amazing children.