I juggle diapers, dishes, and fatigue while on maternity leave, only to have my husband, Trey, laugh at the mess and accuse me of being lazy for purchasing a robot vacuum. He believes that I am idle all day. What I have in mind for him is unknown to him.

The sound of the baby monitor coming to life at 3:28 a.m. has grown more dependable than any alarm clock I’ve ever had.

 

My world has long since stopped following regular routines, but darkness still clings to the room’s boundaries.

I can scarcely remember the luxury of sleeping for more than four hours at a time.

Sean’s small fingers are already reaching for me with a desperation that both breaks and warms my heart as I pick him up from his crib. His gentle whimpers soon become into screams of hunger.

 

The nursing chair has evolved into my command center, my battleground, and my place of solace and fatigue.

Prior to Sean, I worked as a marketing executive and was able to expertly balance strategic planning, client presentations, and housework.

My entire world has now been reduced to this place, this daily battle to keep myself and my house clean, and this routine of changing diapers and feedings. The disparity is startling.

 

The length of the baby’s naps and my ability to remember to eat lunch are now my yardsticks for success.

My spouse, Trey, doesn’t get it. Could he? Every morning, he goes with his briefcase in hand, his hair groomed to perfection, and clean clothing that haven’t been discolored or stretched.

He joins a realm of mature discussions and issues that can be resolved through strategic emails, spreadsheets, or meetings.

 

When Trey arrives home, the house is in such disarray that Marie Kondo would shudder.

Laundry overflows onto the floor, and dishes pile up in the sink. On the kitchen counter, the spills and crumbs that I haven’t cleaned up create a map of an unidentified place. The dust bunnies in the living room are about to establish a society of their own.

The mayhem is stunning, yet it could have been entirely prevented if only one other person had ever taken a single action.

 

Trey’s response is expected.

Saying, “Wow,” he lets out a deep sigh and drops his briefcase. “It looks like a tornado hit.”

The words pierce my heart.

With my back hurting and my hair, which hasn’t been properly brushed in days, tucked behind my ears, I’m folding little onesies and booties that seem to grow more quickly than rabbits.

 

I say, “I’ve been a bit busy,” while trying not to cry.

Even though I’m beyond baby hormones, it wasn’t until Sean came along that I truly understood why sleep deprivation is regarded as misery.

For the first month after Sean’s birth, I foolishly disregarded the suggestion to take naps when the baby naps in order to keep up with the mess. Because who would do it if I didn’t?

 

So, rather than sleeping, I wiped down surfaces, folded onesies, scraped poop stains off changing mats, and made an effort to maintain some semblance of order.

And now? My eyelids burn, my body feels like it’s running on fumes, and on certain days, I think I can hear scents.

Trey seamlessly transitions from a professional to a man asserting his dominion as he kicks off his shoes, changes into his new clothing, and collapses into the couch.

 

“You could help, you know,” I respond. “Maybe tackle the dishes, do a load of laundry…”

Trey gives me a furious expression.

“Why? I work harder than you do. Apart from cleaning, what else do you do during the day? I’m exhausted, so don’t ask for my assistance.”

 

“I’m taking care of our son, Trey, and it’s really hard. It wasn’t even this stressful at work.

When I tell him that the sky is green, he makes a face. “Caring for our son, who basically just eats and sleeps, is stressful?”

It isn’t that easy. To get him to stop sobbing, I sometimes have to take him on laps around the house—”

He frowns. “Right, but you’re still home,” he replies.

 

“You could throw in a load of laundry while you’re at it,” he says.

My stomach knots up. “Trey, I do laundry. But then I realize I haven’t eaten, Sean wakes up and needs me, or he spits up on me, and all of a sudden it’s three o’clock and I haven’t even sat down—”

“Okay, but if you planned your time better…” Nodding at the dishes in the sink, he drifted off. “You could clean up as you go instead of letting everything pile up.”

 

I clench my fingers around the onesie I’m holding. He’s still not understanding. He’s not even interested in getting it.

“You know you should feel thankful. It feels like you’re on vacation. While browsing through his phone, he murmurs, “I wish I could just spend the entire day at home in my pajamas.”

Something starts to boil inside of me. A persistent, continuous heat that has been accumulating for months, rather than an abrupt eruption.

 

Our division of labor was manageable prior to Sean. Workable but not equal. On occasion, Trey would cook when he felt like it, do a load of laundry, and occasionally help with the dishes.

Even though I handled the most of the chores, it felt team-oriented. I’m invisible now. A ghost that only exists to serve in my own house.

I choose wisely when my parents give me money for my birthday.

 

I purchased a vacuum robot. I cried when I opened it because I was so glad to have something to help, even if it was just to save me from drowning in pet hair and shattered Cheerios. I even thought of giving it a name.

Trey’s response was furious.

“A vacuum operated by a robot? “Really?” he yells. His expression shifts between incredulity and rage. “That is incredibly wasteful and lazy. Instead of purchasing toys for women who don’t want to clean, we should be saving money for my family’s trip.

 

I feel as though someone has hit me. Want to avoid cleaning? Cleaning is taking over my life. I live my life cleaning and being a mommy.

As he babbles on about the vacuum and how stupid I was to purchase something with a no-returns clause, I look at him.

However, I don’t defend or dispute with myself since it’s pointless. He has already shown that he will not listen.

 

I’m not even moved to tears. Rather, I smile.

At that moment, something breaks inside of me. My husband needs to learn a lesson because I’m so exhausted that I’ve reached the end of my sanity.

Trey’s phone disappears the following morning.

I give him my lovely, calculating innocence when he asks about it.

 

“People used to send letters,” I respond. “Let’s stop being wasteful with all these electronics.”

The next three days are filled with growing frustration. He looks everywhere, growing more and more agitated.

By the end of the third day, he is yelling at shadows and muttering about communication and accountability.

His car keys vanish as he gets used to living without a phone.

 

He has a job. He borrows my phone and orders an Uber as panic creeps in. I call it off.

Reminding him, “People used to walk five miles to work,” I speak with the same arrogance he has been using toward me for months. “You should embrace a simpler lifestyle.”

He stutters, “But I’m going to be late—!” instead. “This isn’t funny!”

I repeat, “Don’t be so lazy, Trey,” hurling his own words like a barrage.

 

Furious, he storms out and makes his way to his office, which is a mile and a half away.

Even if I feel a tiny sense of vengeful satisfaction, I’m not done yet. Does he believe that I am idle all day? Alright. Let him see what happens when I spend my days doing nothing at all.

I only looked after Sean after that day. The house is a battle zone of domestic mayhem by the end of the week.

 

“Baby… How did the laundry turn out? Why is the refrigerator empty, and I don’t have any clean shirts?” His eyes wide with shock, he asks.

I look up calmly and unconcernedly from feeding Sean. “Oh, it’s because I’m just so lazy and don’t want to clean, do nothing all day, can’t plan my time… did I miss anything?”

He’s too shrewd to respond.

 

Trey appears to have gone through a lot, and in a sense he has, when he returns home the following day with wilting gas station roses.

Muttering, “You were right,” “I apologize. I had no idea you’ve been working so hard.”

“No, you really don’t.” I give him a two-page schedule that lists all of the things I accomplish in a day. Every minute is tracked, from possible midnight wake-ups to baby feedings at five in the morning.

 

His face is a canvas of terror and deepening awareness as he reads in quiet.

He murmurs, “I’m tired just reading this.”

In response, “Welcome to my life,”

After that, fortunately, things are beginning to get better, but we quickly come to the conclusion that knowledge alone is insufficient.

 

As soon as we begin therapy, Trey starts to actively engage and understands what it takes to be an equal participant.

What about the robot vacuum? It remains. A little, mechanical reward for my quiet defiance.

Being a mother is not a holiday. It’s a full-time job with overtime, no sick days, and the most demanding boss you’ve ever had—a small person who is completely dependent on you.

Here’s a more tale: Sean, Brent’s brother, remains in the system even though Brent eventually aged out of foster care. Brent is adamant about adopting him, but he must overcome stringent regulations, financial obstacles, and a cynical social worker. Although he has always shielded Sean, the court now controls their future.

Although this work has been fictionalized for artistic reasons, it is based on actual individuals and events. To preserve privacy and improve the story, names, characters, and specifics have been altered. Any likeness to real people—living or dead—or real events is entirely accidental and not the author’s intention.

The publisher and author disclaim all liability for any misunderstanding and offer no guarantees regarding the veracity of events or character portrayals. This story is presented “as is,” and the opinions stated are those of the characters and do not represent the publisher’s or author’s.