So, it’s Sunday, you rocked the household all week, took care of your sick self and sick kids, did laundry, dishes, prepared and cleaned up food, dealt with fruit flies, ran errands, took kids to urgent care and took yourself to the DR to get birth control, cause ain’t nobody got time for another baby right now. The nearly 4-month-old wants to be held and walked around almost non-stop, the toddler is teething and, as it turns out, has an ear infection. You bleached the tub after your toddler crapped in it whilst she and her big sister were taking a bath, and scrubbed the rest of the bathroom for good measure. You swept, and swept, and swept again, when the toddler decided the cereal looked better on the floor. (Dry cereal, thank God.)
Your husband works overtime, because he has a few projects that need done. He stays up late, thus sleeps a little later, but gets up and works. He has meetings, and all kinds of people to talk to and coordinate with, jumping between projects. It’s not easy, it’s a lot of work, but he loves his job.
I love my kids, and I love a clean house, and I love eating, but as much as he loves his job, he needs a break too. And sometimes he stays up late and plays video games. Sometimes he calls it a day at the end of business hours. But he gets to shut his door and do what he feel like doing.
How is that fair?
Admittedly, I don’t have many hobbies. Or well, I do, but nothing I can realisticly do without dragging everything out, and then back when I’m done, or having to jump up every 2 minutes, cause somebody is crying, whether from pain, being “hungry”, or just for the hell of it. Even cooking dinner proves to be a challenge, the Instant Pot is a great help, but not all can be made on it, and stuff still needs prepping.
Me: “I know what I want to do today.”
Me: “I want to go get my hair done.”
It had been a while. Like a year, at least. I bought an $11 pair of barber shears so that I could cut off the split ends myself. Whenever I want to do my nails, I either only get one hand done, or the polish gets completely screwed up. I deserve this.
Him: “Come on, I don’t want to be stuck with the kids.”
Me: “Whatever, forget it.”
I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t have the energy or will power to fight.
He works all week, and acts like it’s so much harder than what I do. Arguably, it’s the same difficulty at best. On top of all those aforementioned tasks, I have to get up with a baby in the middle of the night. I do not have it easy. I’m truly blessed, don’t get me wrong, but it’s no walk in the park. I need a damn haircut. And I want to get my hair relaxed, so that it doesn’t take me 10 minutes in the shower to brush it.
Now, if he recognized how hard my job is, he’d let me go. But, if he thinks it’s easy peasy, then what is the problem in doing it for a little while? He does know how hard I work, he just won’t admit it. And that pisses me off. I get that his job is mentally draining. And sometimes on the weekends he is being put to work by his parents. But he gets to have hours at night, with peace and the freedom to play games and not deal with kids, or chores, or animals. Nothing. (Oh yeah, animals, those we have to, for me to take care of.)
How is that fair? Just a few hours at the damn salon, where I talk to grownups and get pampered. His hair gets cut by me with clippers. I don’t mind, but I can’t do that. Now of course, shaving my head would make soooo many things easier, but I’m not quite at the Britney stage yet. Maybe soon, but not quite yet.
When I go to the store, (preferably Target, cause duh) it IS still a chore. You can sugarcoat it as you like, but it’s a chore. Unless I get to go by myself with a latte in my hand, (whatever happened to target serving alcohol anyway?) without flailing children, a baby strapped to yourself, a toddler pulling a Houdini and wiggling out of the strap, climbing out of the seat, running away, and a kindergartener asking you if she can have all the things, and why and what and who and where – it IS still a CHORE. However, he thinks because it’s something I like doing, it doesn’t count as a chore. Even though on the way there I have to plop the pacifier back in the baby’s mouth going down the highway, (we’ve all been there, and driving with a screaming baby is not an option), the kindergartener always has to pee when you’re at the other end of the store with a full cart, and ideally the restrooms are beyond the registers, she’s hungry, she’s thirsty, she wants to go home. Nevermind the stuff I had already listed.
I just want a couple of hours.
I can’t even go to the gym, because they’re closed. The entire week I couldn’t go, because I couldn’t stick my sick kids in childcare. Even if it’s working out, those 2 hours would be awesome right now.
I don’t just need a damn haircut, I need to feel like a person.
On days like this past week, I want to hide in the van and turn up the radio. I want to have a cigarette so badly, but I know it’ll just make me feel like crap and it’s not worth it. Day drinking is kind of frowned upon when in charge of children. Child neglect isn’t very much appreciated. So I suck it up.
I just wish somebody would be like “you look stressed out. Here, I’ll take the kids, you go get your hair done.”