The other morning, I was digging around for something in the back of my closet when I found a framed photograph I’d stashed there in one of my fits of manic tidying.

Is there something the matter with me? As a wife? Because here’s the thing: I don’t always like to do my “wifely duty.”

When I was 32, three years into my blessedly peaceful second marriage, 16 months into the motherhood gig, five months pregnant with our second child, I sat on the floor of our New York apartment in stunned silence.

My wife, Lael, and I had repeatedly been cautioned by our experienced friends to expect severe, relationship-altering sleep loss after the birth of our daughter. The truth was, though, that we looked forward to the challenge.

I met a life coach a few years back who promised he’d help me “become more of who I was.” He said that as though it were a good thing. I’m not so sure.

Others may have begun their parenting journey with a positive pregnancy test and parenting book, but I started mine in front of the television.