When women become mothers, their identities often collapse into one word: Mother. Men, meanwhile, remain fathers and themselves.
A year on, editor Alice Codford revisits a question hiding in plain sight: why does “working mum” sound like something a woman has to explain when “working dad” barely raises an eyebrow?
Last year, I saw a reel on Instagram that made me laugh. A mum was feeding her child, playing with them, taking them for a walk. Then it cut to the dad doing exactly the same things, only every time he appeared, a little song chimed in: “What a great dad!”
I laughed, and then I stopped laughing. I knew exactly why there was no song for her. She was just doing her job, apparently.
I wrote about that reel for Luminary Mothers in October 2025. When we shared the piece on Instagram, it got more than 3.4 million views. A year later, the part I keep thinking about is how little explanation the joke needed. Same child. Same walk. We all knew which parent was getting the applause.
It reminded me of all those reels where the mum is trying to get everyone out of the house. She’s packing snacks, toys, wipes, water bottles and, somehow, her husband’s things, too. He’s standing by the door with his coat on: “Why do you always take so long to get ready?” Well, John, I’d be ready first, too, if someone else had packed my bag.
And if they get halfway down the road before they realise they’ve forgotten the wipes, whose first thought is likely to be “I forgot them”? They both walked out of the same house. Only one of them thought the wipes were hers to forget.
Why is it that when a woman forgets something, she feels guilty, even ashamed, but when a dad does, he just gets on with his day, unbothered? Can we really keep pretending that’s equality?
What strikes me is how easily being the one who remembers everything turns into being seen as nothing else. Her name, her work, the things she wants for herself can all start to feel like footnotes to the one thing everybody now knows about her: she’s a mum. For men, fatherhood tends to be an addition. He’s still himself, and now he’s somebody’s dad, too.
By Alice Codford
We’ve inherited some very different ideas about what makes a good mother and a good father. A man who works long hours can explain that he’s doing it for his children. A woman who works the same hours is more likely to be asked how she feels about the time she spends away from hers. She might be doing it for her children, too. She might also happen to love her job. Why does the second answer feel like the one she ought to keep to herself?
You can hear it in how we talk about parents. Working mum. Stay-at-home mum. Single mum. Helicopter mum. Each label seems to invite a judgement: is she doing enough, too much, or the wrong thing entirely? Fathers have labels, too. But how often does “working dad” sound like a contradiction someone expects him to resolve?
In April, Emma Grede described herself in a Wall Street Journal interview as a “max three-hour mum” on weekends. It was her own phrase. What struck me was how quickly a remark about her weekends became a verdict on her mothering. You can disagree with how she spends a Saturday. But when did you last hear a father put a number on the hours he spends with his children? And would you even think to ask?
There’s a line in a Vogue profile of Lily Allen that’s stayed with me. The writer mentions that Allen went to see Charli XCX in London, then lets us know where her daughters were that summer: at camp, making friendship bracelets. It’s a kind aside, written in her defence. A woman went to a gig, and someone could already hear us asking where her children were. I’ve read plenty of profiles of male musicians. I couldn’t tell you where a single one of their children spent the summer.
Then there’s “helping”. A father helps with the children. A mother is lucky to have the help. It sounds like a compliment, until you notice who the sentence puts in charge.
I keep coming back to that dad in the reel. I hope he is a great dad. I hope he knows where the wipes are and which cup his child will drink from and what makes them laugh on the walk home. What caught me was how little we needed to see of him to decide he was wonderful, and how much we could see of her without thinking anything of it at all.
And I wonder what we’d have thought if the camera had stayed with her after he took their child out. Suppose she’d spent that hour reading on the sofa. Would we have wanted to know whether she’d earned it? Because it’s quite something to be taken for granted when you’re in the picture and have to account for yourself the minute you step out of it.
A mother should be able to have an ambition, an afternoon to herself, or a thought unrelated to her children without having to explain what it means about her love for them.
Originally published in October 2025. Updated and republished in November 2026.