Dear Husband

January 21, 2019

Dear Husband

I'm not sure if you understand my day. I'm not sure if you see the uppies, the tantrums, the nosewiping, the comforting, the on-the-floor playing, the grocery shopping (again), the 'oh-shit-the-iron-broke' moments.

I'm not sure you see. I know you say you do. I know you see that I do 'stuff'. But in the busiest time of the day, in the evening when our kitchen is a scurry of activity and I'm somewhat of a mad person, we finally coordinate everyone to sit at the table, you turn to me and ask me if i managed to pick up that thing? Or what happened to marie kondo-ing our house today? Or why is there a truck on the dining room table.

Because if you did see. Really looked. You would know that a shower in my day to day routine has become a hot commodity. Time is such a different concept in these early wild years of motherhood.

Did I fetch the thing? In the haze of the day I forgot. Mari Kondo? That woman is a Saint. I would dearly like to pay her to organize with my 2 year old around. And the truck? The truck (for today) is a glorified ornament.

You see, I need you to be kind to me when I'm not kind to myself. In this chapter, I somehow think that our family's happiness, the memory-making, the correct stimulation, story-time, sleep routine, eating habits, exercise schedule, language development, work satisfaction and every thing else in between is my sole responsibility.

This picture I've painted for myself of motherhood taunts me, screaming that I'm not living up to my stepford standards.

I'm envious of the instagram mom. She looks like she has her sh*t together. Why don't I? I'm envious of generations past - they seemed to housekeep, juggle kids and have a nutritious meal on the table by 6pm without any children meltdowns (or so I'm told).

So, be kind. Be aware. Be grateful.

I give so willingly. But when you sigh and ask me if I STILL haven't fetched that thing, I want to shrink into my damn chair.

I'm failing. I'm failing because my standards are unrealistic. I'm failing because it's not fair to put the entire happiness of a whole family on my shoulders (why would I do that to myself). I'm failing because I never wanted to be a housewife but found that I couldn't bear to leave my babies.