My husband took our children (except the baby) to the store on Saturday. But before leaving, he knocked on the bedroom door I was behind and said, “You have free reign of the home for a little while, just wanted to let you know.”

I stepped out cautiously, peeking both ways to make sure they were truly gone before emerging from my little refuge. As I tried to decide what to do with my precious, rare two hours, I walked to the other side of the house—and realized I hadn’t even hesitated or thought about which route to take. It struck me that I had grown so used to constantly choosing paths that would help me avoid a child who might pop out with a “Mom…” the moment I rounded a corner. I often peek through a doorway, spot one kid, glance down the hall and spot another—sometimes even darting across the front entry like a secret agent, hoping no one would see me so I might actually get one thing done without interruption.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my children, and I love that I get to be a stay-at-home mom. I laugh at the funny things they say, and I delight in their little milestones. Nothing brings me more joy than my family. But every now and then, I hit that wall. Sometimes it’s a day, sometimes it’s a week. This time? It was probably courtesy of that beloved monthly gift of hormonal chaos. Whatever the reason, my bucket was bone-dry. I was used up. And I could not bear to hear “Mom” one more time.

Honestly, if my family had just called me by my first name for a day, it might’ve given me enough of a psychological break to recover a little. “Mom” had become Pavlov’s bell for me—I didn’t even need to hear the complaint or the request that followed. Just the word alone triggered fatigue. Even when Dad is right there, somehow, it’s still “Mom” they call.

During those quiet two hours, something shifted. I felt a new kind of love for my home—the house itself. Usually, when I need a break, my husband sends me out. But this time, I got to enjoy my own space, my own domain. I realized I might even be able to clean the house without watching something else simultaneously unravel in a different room. The time passed too quickly. My bucket wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty anymore either. I told my husband I wanted to pull out the summer calendar and find a weekend when he could take the kids to Grandma’s. I could plan ahead and actually make the most of the solitude. Funny enough, he didn’t seem quite as thrilled about the idea as I was.

That evening, they came home, we had dinner, and I retreated with the baby to the spare bedroom—I still wasn’t quite ready to hear “Mom” again. But of course, it’s always in vain. There is no escape. Soon, I heard my daughter crying at the door: “MAW-OM!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked flatly, patience running thin.
“Dad made me sad!”
“Why?”
“Because he said not to bother you!”

I came out, gently stroked her cheek, and forced myself to start cleaning the kitchen. And as I worked, this thought quietly arrived—and I felt a surprising joy at the idea:

Why don’t we know much about a Mother in Heaven?
Because Heavenly Father told us not to bother Her.

We don’t pray to Her—we pray to the Father. I believe He honors Her by keeping Her name sacred. I imagine Her tucked away in a spare Celestial bedroom, caring for infant spirits who haven’t learned how to complain yet. Can you imagine how many people, at any given moment, are crying out sincerely to the Father? And yet He glories in attending to each one.

I think this is meant to be our greatest joy: to learn how to welcome our children unto us—and to hear and soothe every cry with patience. If we can pass this test, surely our reward in the next life will be great. I like to think Her bucket is full. Wouldn’t you?

And maybe, just maybe, in that eternal sphere, the father of the family will be the one to hear it all first. I think I can endure this calling—and even learn to cherish it—for just a little while longer. I might even miss it one day. And if we’re blessed to become like our Heavenly Parents, maybe my husband will one day do what I do now: be the first to hear every need, every complaint. And he’ll do it perfectly. And great will be his joy.

So this Father’s Day, let’s honor all the fathers for the sacred responsibility that may one day be theirs. One thing’s for sure: we’ve all got a long way to go before we’re ready for that. I only have five children, and I’m already grateful to my husband for doing what he can to buffer the constant demands. Heavenly Father has billions—and yet He shields His companion from the noise and the disrespect She’d surely receive from us mortals.

And I’m grateful that He listens to me when I feel I have nothing left to give. Doctrine or not, that thought changed my heart. It gave me what I needed to show up for my children again—with joy.