Confession: Sometimes I Hate My Husband

Sometimes I hate my husband. Sometimes I hate that I'm a woman, the mommy, the one who can never check out.

To lay out the foundation of our relationship and this situation, you must know I am wholeheartedly 100% a feminist. I don't believe in gender roles. I know, I know, I look like Suzy-fucking-homemaker with her bundle of four small children. But I'm choosing to be home because that's where my heart is. I'm not at home because I believe women, all women, are suppose to be home, baking cookies, and knitting sweaters.

If I worked outside of the home, the chores would be split right in half just like they were before we had children and I stopped getting paid for my hard work. 

We've devised these guidelines about money, responsibilities, and work. I've agreed to be responsible of all of the household chores and the vast majority of the child-rearing in exchange to him working between 55 - 70 hours a week.

 

I've agreed to this household plan because his overtime pay beats any wage that I could make while working around his work schedule. I look at his overtime pay as the amount I would be making but yet, still have the blessing of a flexible schedule and the time to spend together as a family.

We have this plan and it works 95% of the time. Jarod has his realm of work at work and I have my own at home. I have a schedule, a plan, a way of doing things. I'm so use to doing things at home by myself and he's so use to not doing much at home. But then, my consecutive nights of little sleep start getting to me, the kids get exceptionally whiny, his overtime hours get shortened, and he comes home to the place he's accustom to not doing much of anything and he sits on the couch.

Source: Unknown

He says he's tired. Uhh, so am I.

He says he's excited his day off is tomorrow and I'm confused of this magical world of which he speaks. Where is "Day Off?" Is it far? How do I get there?

And then I hate him. I resent him for sitting down while I run around like a chicken with my head cut off. The kids are use to me doing everything for them, too. They're use to their dad not being home so they ask me for every little thing. I can be cooking dinner with my right hand, telephone wedged between my tilted head and shoulder while my left hand is pulling a child out of a fire, and then have another child ask me for new pants because they "pee in undeewear," all the while the parent is right there, sitting on the couch, laughing at some funny Vine.

 And then, I hate him even more.

"JJ."

Of course, I get nothing because men are terrible at doing anything else than the one task they're currently engaged in.

"Babe!"

If I hadn't been married to this man for almost 9 years I would already be so pissed and could have sworn I was being ignored.

"JJ!!!"

He slowly looks up, "Did you say something?"

Duh, I'm fucking dying over here, is what I really want to say but I usually go with a casual, "Yes, can you . . ."

Sometimes I hate how every big, small, minor detail: bills, emails, 3 meals a day (everrryday, whhhy??), cleaning, homeschooling, everything, and anything, falls on me. It doesn't seem like much but it all adds up.

I hate how I drink coffee at 10pm to get some "me" time in the day. I hate how he effortlessly states he needs time for himself to workout, to take a shower, to eat; I have no idea how to do that. I know how to take care of everyone else but me.

Sometimes I wish being "selfish" and simply, just taking care of myself wasn't such a foreign trait. Sometimes I wish I was a man because sometimes, being a woman is so damn exhausting.

Most of the time, I really, really like him, but sometimes, sometimes I hate my husband.

 

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Kids Are Hard, My Driving Disability, And Our Posse

When you have one kids you quickly realize doing anything and everything is hard. Things that used to be normal everyday things seem to take enormous mental agility and strength.

Going to the bathroom means sprinting and locking it before a strange, small person joins you, stares, and fills the silence with awkward, small talk.

"You poop?" they enthusiastically ask as they try to take a gander in the mesmerizing white bowl you're sitting on. You engage in this degrading conversation after thinking, how in the world did my life come to this?, because the only thing better than retaining the small amount of self-respect for yourself is the thought of never changing their diapers again.

Even driving becomes the hardest task in the world; so hard that you begin making up weird-ass driving disabilities. It is a known fact in our family that mommy cannot drive without complete silence.

"Okay, Mommy needs to focus now," is a phrase they've come to know as a demand for their complete silence and the blaring of the radio to muffle out any remaining sounds of their existence. It's not lost on me that one day they're going to recall this time in their lives and slowly come to the hard realization that I'm just a big, fat liar.

Please tell I'm not alone and you have lies disabilities you tell your kids.

Living life with kids, especially small kids, is hard. Doing anything out of the normal exhausts me but I want them to have childhood memories they love. I want to have family traditions we share and so, on Sunday (instead of revelling in nap time) we rented Monsters University, threw cookies in the oven, popcorn in the microwave, and, of course, coffee in the pot.

The DVD in the living room is broken, of course. Everything is slowly, but surely, breaking. Yay! So everyone "snuggled" (I was "comfortably" laying against the hard, cold wall) on our bed and me and my posse made a memory.

this is my happy. they are my world.

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Confession: The Real Reason I Take Selfies

I love me some selfies and I don't understand why anyone wouldn't like them.

Generally, in real-life (you know, the thing opposite of what you're looking at right now) we look at people's faces because that's how we're suppose to communicate with people, it's how we scope someone's emotions, and gauge what they're really thinking. 

I think you can give me that argument, right? Faces are pretty damn great.

But, selfies (insert eyes rolling) are the devil; they're a self-involved public pictorial statement from a camera-raping son-of-a-bitch begging the reassurance to the ever-annoying, "am I pretty? I'm so pretty, right?! Right??"
 



As a selfie-loving mom of four who's had every inch of her body stretch, sag, and most definitely, not bounce back (stilllll waiting for that one), I have to say, "bahahhahhha." Us moms, with our three-day unwashed hair, unshaven legs, dark-circled eyes, know the hell motherhood has on our looks and we, who, stupidly lovingly sacrifice ourselves again and again to create fucking life could give a damn if you think we're pretty.

Proof.

Ohh, we know we used to be pretty; How do you think we snagged ourselves a man? Our brains?? (LOL, pleeease) and once a week month year we use magic to make ourselves look, not pretty but like regular, normal people.
 

I don't strive for pretty anymore. I strive to look average. I strive to look like I got some sleep last night.

And when I cleverly think I can fool you - SHAZAM!!!! - I take a fucking selfie.

SHAZAM!!!!

 

Took a shower today. Selfie.

Brushed my teeth. Selfie.

Used magic!?! Put on makeup!?!

SHA-FRIGGIN'-ZAM!!!!

Are you a selfie-lover? Or a selfie-hater?

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