Last week, I was stressed out about owing the library money for an overdue book that I still hadn’t found. I’m convinced that the librarian didn’t account for it after I put it through the drop off box.
It’s always some else’s fault, right?
A few days later, I found it sitting on my son’s desk, patiently waiting for me to return it to it’s home. I was happy to do so. It made my day to find that book and be $15.99 in the green.
Thinking about those late fees triggered emotions I hadn’t dealt with in a while. I assumed it was another unnecessary cost that we couldn’t afford. My husband was right. It was one more thing he had to pay for because I didn’t work.
I’ve played the role of home-maker for close to ten years. I feel like a jackass if I complain about my life that’s being 100% supported by my husband. While stuffing my face with a hearty slice of humble pie, I read stories like this one by Shannon Ashley and I think, how in the fuck does she do it?
I’m not a jackass. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to be standing right where I am. But I am also a woman who married her first serious boyfriend, gave him her virginity, two healthy beautiful children, and pours her heart and soul into them every fucking day.
At the end of that day, I still take care of the kids, and my husband keeps us afloat financially.
I hate it.
It’s the shittiest feeling in the world to give so much of myself and still be reminded that I’m not helping to pay the bills.
It’s disappointing.
It’s depressing.
I’m tired and resentful. Brian Brewington hit the nail right on the head when he said, “Resentments are a motherfucker.”
Yes. they. are.
I want to forgive my husband for making me feel unequal to him in the past.
No one can make me feel anything unless I allow them to.
My parents watched my son five days a week when I went back to work. When I got laid off, they gently suggested for us to consider one of us staying home with him while he was young. They felt it would be the best thing for him if we could do it.
My parents are good parents. They never steered me wrong. Of course, I took their suggestion to heart before jumping back into full-time work again.
Truth be told, I think caring for a three-month-old all day was hard on them. They raised their kids already.
I totally understand.
In hindsight, I blame myself for not having an in-depth conversation with my husband about what we wanted our family dynamics to be since we both came from very different backgrounds.
I was taken aback when my parents asked us to re-evaluate our childcare situation. I think my husband was pissed.
I understand.
It was stressful because we were used to a particular lifestyle (i.e., a certain amount of money each month.) It was an adjustment for both of us. My husband felt that him having to work and me getting to stay home with my son all day was unfair.
I understand.
I put myself in his shoes back then and completely empathize with those emotions of missing out. I understood so much that I thought buying a new car would make his life sweet again.
I felt guilty for my life of entitlement and getting to be home with two kids under five 24/7 while he had to work.
See, resentments really are motherfuckers.
I remember breaking down on the couch in front of my mom because I felt pressured to get a job while I was pregnant with my daughter.
I will never forget that.
It would do me good to forgive him and move forward. He was stressed out.
Stress is also a motherfucker.
I understand.
Our thirteenth wedding anniversary is coming up, and I’m scared. I’m scared that I hold so much resentment in my heart still.
I’m scared that I’m going to get a full-time job someday and never look back.
I won’t. I would never do that to him or hurt my kids.
Ever.
I am so damn angry for feeling unappreciated for what I do day in and day out because I don’t have a paycheck to show for it. I am so sad for feeling like the only way I will be able to prove my worth is getting back on the payroll somewhere.
Okay, that’s enough complaining for one post.
Here’s what I’ve figured out so far after thirteen years of marriage.
My husband’s not perfect. Neither am I. (not by a long shot) Holding onto these emotions isn’t healthy or good for my self-esteem. I love him too much to let resentment get the best of us.
I am determined to become the best version of myself. I am hell-bent on being the best wife and mother I can be. My kids deserve that. I deserve that.
My husband deserves the best version of me too.
Even if some days I want to stab him in the leg with a steak knife.
He’s a good guy. I know that for damn sure. He is the sweetest, kindest, most romantic, loving man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. His heart is enormous and for nearly twenty years, I’ve seen him do the right thing, every. single. time. Even when he really doesn’t want to.
It’s annoying.
He’s an outstanding father. He plays with the kids every night as soon as he gets home from work. That’s annoying too, only because I feel guilty for choosing to get some housework done over playing with my kids sometimes.
The worst mother ever. I know.
I know that I am the only one responsible for making myself feel worthy. I have my husband’s full support (not just financially). All roles are equally hard, full of extreme amounts of pressure and responsibilities. I don’t expect perfection from anyone because raising a family is fucking hard. No matter what role you play in it.
Thank you for listening. ❤ Have a beautiful day. — D
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A version of this post was previously published on Medium and is republished here with permission from the author.
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Talk to you soon.
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