There’s a little-known parenting privilege that comes with keeping small humans alive: you’re allowed to use them as a reason. To bow out of things you don’t want to do. To explain why you’re late. To exit situations without submitting a detailed report on your whereabouts. Not all the time. Not irresponsibly. But strategically. It’s a power you don’t use lightly, because once you do, the matter is generally considered closed.

This privilege is meant to be used by the person doing the parenting.

Apparently, my sister did not get this memo. Or the owl got lost—because she decided to use my children as the justification for a decision she made, while framing it as concern for their well-being.

Here’s the story.

For years—years—she told me I would be her maid of honor someday. Not “maybe,” not “we’ll see,” but you. A role assigned early and repeated often, until it felt permanent. Like something written down somewhere official, even if no one could remember exactly when it happened. My highly competitive self took this very seriously. I held it like a badge. Like a house cup quietly displayed on a high shelf. Even when I moved far away, the title remained. Distance, apparently, was not grounds for dismissal.

So when she finally got engaged, she confirmed it. Still me. Even with the miles between us. My inner overachiever took a discreet victory lap.

Then came the conversation.

You know the kind. Long. Circular. Slightly whiny. The kind where you can feel the atmosphere shift, like something curdling in real time. Eventually, she told me she no longer wanted me as her maid of honor.

The reason wasn’t distance. It wasn’t logistics. It was that I couldn’t be at her beck and call.

Why? Because my priority would be my kids. Not her.

Pause. Breathe. Count to ten like someone who has learned, through experience, that reacting immediately rarely improves outcomes.

First of all—yes. Correct. Gold star. My priority should be them. That is, in fact, the entire premise. Second, I was genuinely surprised she didn’t use the much more socially acceptable explanation of “you live far away,” instead of implying I’d forfeited all usefulness the moment my life started involving snack schedules.

And even if distance was the real reason, let’s be clear about something: she’s right that I wouldn’t simply abandon my children indefinitely. I wouldn’t disappear and assume someone else would sort it out. But the idea that this disqualifies me from being an effective maid of honor is… creative.

We live in an age of instant communication. Messages travel quickly. Plans can be coordinated from afar. I can organize, support, and emotionally stabilize a bride through minor crises without being physically present at all times. I have kept three small humans alive through teething, sleep regressions, and ominous silences. I am confident in my ability to manage a seating chart.

Having kids doesn’t mean the world stops. It just becomes more regulated.

With a solid support system—one built on trust, shared responsibility, and people who understand how things actually work—you can take on nearly anything. Almost as effectively as someone who doesn’t spend part of every day asking, “Why is it quiet?”

So yes, my priorities have shifted. They were supposed to. I now operate in a world where I am responsible for others, where time is measured in nap windows and negotiations happen over half-eaten meals. But don’t mistake that for limitation. I didn’t lose my capacity. I gained range.

I didn’t lose my magic. I just learned how to use it one-handed, while carrying someone else, and quietly fixing a problem no one noticed yet.

Which, frankly, still feels like maid-of-honor material to me.

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