Why am I grumpy? Why am I in a bad mood? Why don’t I seem happy at times? Why am I so snappy? To put it candidly, it’s because of you, my dear husband.
Because the weight of my world, our four kids’ world, and your world seems to fall on my tired shoulders entirely, and the load is getting heavy. Too heavy.
I love being the one our children run to when they need something, because it’s reassuring to know that I am (and will always be) their source of comfort and safety. But it’d be nice to not have to do it all and fill all of these various roles by myself. I didn’t make them by myself, and I sure as hell will not do everything by myself with a happy-go-lucky attitude.
And if that’s what you want, well… you picked the wrong one.
That is impossible. I am exhausted to my core.
So, just once, when I’m in the bathroom, it’d be wonderful if you could put down the virtual world you’re fighting via video games and get our kids a freaking drink while they are bugging my half-naked ass to do so. “Mommy, I need this. Mommy, I need that. Mommy, help me.” All while I’m trying to finish wiping my own ass.
So why am I so quick to snap or so tired that I’m constantly edgy around you? Because I don’t have your help the way I need it. You don’t emotionally support me.
It’s like my cry for help goes in one ear and out the other. Because, no matter how stretched thin I may be, this mom always gets shit done, and you know it, so you don’t hear my pleas.
Yet, you don’t worry about my state of being — emotionally, physically, or mentally — because I love the kids enough to do it all and be it all, even when it feels like I will fail time after time again. And even when I desperately need, not want, help.
You’ve used my own strength against me. You see how I bust my ass around here, even complaining from time to time, and you don’t take me seriously. Because you see that I always manage to parent through the struggle. I feel like I pour out, give up, and rip pieces from myself for all of you, but the favor is never reciprocated.
I am running dry, and it is not OK.
I am not a ’50s housewife, nor do I ever have any intent of becoming one. But somehow, you try to fit me into that mold. So I’m exhausted and angry AF. And you really need to realize that.
Please, get over the messy house or lend a hand to help fix it. How many times have you done the dishes in the last six years? Maybe 10? Including the times I was admitted into the hospital for surgery or delivery? That’s what I thought.
How dare you comment on the state of our home, when I work too, and manage a household of four kids under 4 years old. You bitch about the laundry, you bitch about the clutter, and now I’m starting to believe that you just bitch to bitch, and I’m sick and tired of your ass.
So the next time you want to ask why I’m hauling ass around the house rage-cleaning, huffing and puffing while getting housework done, ask yourself this: How have I contributed today?
I know you work hard while away from the home. I acknowledge that on my own, but you also remind me enough, so how could I forget? But dammit, I work hard too. I’m sorry that my job entails cleaning up after our children all day long, so much so that I never have the chance to get ahead. It may look like I didn’t do anything, but you know better.
Also, I’ve never been a neat freak, and you’ve known me for how long? So why would I start now? Because I certainly won’t become one for you. I’m not sorry that I value quality time with our kids over cleaning time. I don’t want regrets, and I know I will never regret a cluttered house… but I will always regret time missed out on with the kids.
And I don’t think it’s so wrong to ask, since I never do anymore: When will there be time for me to just do the simple things again?
I know I need to enjoy these fleeting moments, but this mom just wants to wipe her ass one time without a tiny human audience telling me how to do so. “Front to back, Mommy. Don’t forget. Do it like you tell me.”
It’s adorable at times, but I need two minutes of peace. Two minutes of quiet. Two minutes to think.
I want time with my friends, and that never ever happens. More importantly, I want time for myself, and that doesn’t happen either. I’m sick of being the caretaker who doesn’t have anybody to take care of me, and that’s your fault. You’re supposed to be my partner, but you’re not.
I’m worn out, stretched thin, and seriously at my wits’ end most days. Do you even care, or do you just not realize what it is to be the mom that I am?
My needs, wants, and desires are valid and worthy. I do enough, I am enough, and my mothering role does not define every aspect of my being. So stop trying to conform every bit of me and then wonder why I’m frustrated with you. It should be obvious.
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