My husband, Dustin, is the fun parent. Part of this is because, as the parents of only sons, he more easily identifies with our children and their interests than I do. (I’d rather chip paint than play Axis & Allies.)

But most of my husband’s parenting persona is due to the fact that he has been gone for about half of our children’s lives. In between deployments and other military obligations, what time he has left is considered too valuable to spend on things like homework, discipline and yard work.

A popular refrain goes like this: “I get such little time with them, how about I take them to the ball field instead of mowing the grass this weekend?”

So I mow the lawn, and they go have fun.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Well, not entirely.

Some of our separations have been voluntary in order to keep the family settled in one place during times of frequent moves. And I’m usually the first one to tell my husband, fresh off a deployment, to let me, not him, discipline the kids since he’s been gone.

But in recent months, just when my husband’s retirement has come into view, I’ve lost patience with our situation. This 11thhour collapse was true for me during deployments, too. I always kept it together until the homecoming was just weeks away. As soon as relief was so close that its arrival could be measured in the same period of time as a food’s expiration date, I would let my defenses down and fall apart.

I was in this mind-set when I set out to edge the lawn last week. For almost two decades, I’ve carried the weight of home maintenance, and I was feeling sick of it when the gas-powered weed whacker wouldn’t start. I called Dustin, at work in other state, to complain and blame it on him.

“Maybe this isn’t really about the weed whacker,” Dustin foolishly suggested.

After I calmly said goodbye through clenched teeth and set down my iPhone, I chucked the weed whacker across the pavement of the driveway — and broke it.

Dustin came home a few days later for the weekend, and our first item on the to-do list was to replace the weed whacker. We also needed grass seed, a shovel and 45 bags of mulch. But we had brought Dustin’s car to the store, and his car, of course, is the fun, zippy one that hardly holds a load of groceries, much less 45 bags of mulch. I complained about this, too. I think I even said I hated Dustin’s car.

“Maybe this isn’t really about the car,” Dustin suggested.

Even though I glared at him, I knew he was right. Everything about Dustin’s life — I mean, car — seems void of my usual trappings: kids fighting in the backseat, baseball bags in the trunk, and a light saber on the passenger-side floor.

Desperate to make amends and to save the weekend, Dustin was determined to fit all the bags of mulch into his tiny car. If I could travel to see him in D.C. with three kids, a dog, five suitcases and 40 bazillion bathroom stops, he could fit the weekend’s mulch into his hatchback. Even when the high school-aged employee had his doubts and expressed concern for the car’s shocks, Dustin made it clear: if his car broke down under the weight of the mulch, it would at least chip away at his easy-breezy, fun-Dad persona.

The high schooler refused to add any more bags after he had stuffed 20 into the back. He looked at Dustin and shrugged. “I know you were hoping, but, well, the shocks,” he said. “And be careful if you go over any potholes.”

Next, Dustin shoved the new weed whacker, still in its box, diagonally in between us in the front row. He seemed desperate to make that work, too.

As the rear hung low all the way down the interstate, Dustin periodically peered over the weed whacker box and reminded me that he wasn’t currently doing anything fun.

“Here’s me driving in a clown car full of mulch,” he said.

He looked so cute, I was beginning to soften and forget my 19 years of built-up anger. We laughed about how ridiculous we looked.

And then Dustin said, “Should we go by the baseball field to say hi to the boys on our way home?”

Of all Dustin’s absences, the ones that sting the most are when prickly teens need a target for all their disgust, frustration and anger, and he isn’t around to help absorb it. Sometimes, when I’m just standing there doing nothing, I’m an embarrassment to my teenagers. I could never drive up to the baseball field in a tiny car packed with 20 bags of mulch and a weed whacker and get away with it.

“Should we go by the baseball field?” Dustin asked again.

Poor, sweet, unsuspecting Dustin. I almost didn’t share my intel. I almost didn’t tell him how badly that would go over. I almost let him drop me at the corner and then go on to the field himself.

But I love him, so I didn’t. I let him keep his cool factor.

Although, he’s the fun one, so you know, the boys probably would have thought it was funny.