Being a mom is hard. Full stop. Whether you’re a working mom, a stay-at-home mom, or a combination of both, it’s an all-consuming role. You can read every self-help book, attend every therapy session, and still find yourself consistently putting someone else’s needs before your own.
Right now, Mackenzie has been crying in her room for about twenty minutes straight. We’re at the intersection of pre-teen angst and perimenopause, where emotion trumps reason and reaction overpowers logic — for both of us. Tonight’s meltdown? A missing Pink Palm Puff hoodie.
Dads, in these moments, are often blissfully, maddeningly clueless.
“Pink what?”
“Here’s a pink hoodie. Just wear this one.”
“What’s wrong with this? It’s gray. It looks better.”
And with that, they’re done. They toss a gray crewneck in the general direction of their offspring and assume the crisis is handled.
Why is it that women are expected to work all day — and yes, that includes stay-at-home moms because raising kids is most definitely work — and then come home to work some more? Why do we shoulder the burden of infinite patience while men get a pass?
It’s not for lack of desire. I want to be that perfect, ever-present mom. But I’m exhausted. I’m impatient. I’m depleted. I’m the one making lunch and dinner, paying bills, seeding the lawn, inflating my tires, taking the car in for maintenance, grocery shopping, comforting a crying kid — all while my partner’s contribution to household chores begins and ends with the dishes. And that only started after ten years of marriage, an overflowing sink of dirty dishes, and me flat-out refusing to wash them. Is that what it takes? Does initiative only emerge from necessity?
Then there are those moments when I feel a flicker of pride (or is it embarrassment?) that I’m the one with the portable jump starter that bailed out the neighbors when their car died. The same portable device that saved my husband’s motorcycle after a long winter in storage.
My temper flares when the property tax bills are addressed to my husband, even though I’m the one paying the mortgage and taxes every year. In fact, due to financial circumstances, I’m the one covering the bulk of the taxes from my personal account — yet I’m still listed as “secondary” on the title. Every single year.
I work in marketing. I know individual spending can be tracked and distinguished. If gender doesn’t matter, then why is my name never first? Alphabetically, it’s first. Financially, it’s first. But still, I’m always just “…and resident.”
Society continues to tie my identity to the men in my life. My maiden name came from my father. My last name came from my husband. And while I’m grateful for the foundation they provided, I can’t help but wonder — how much of my perceived dependence was assumed? How much of my independence was overlooked because it was expected that I’d always be attached to them?
Because, for the record, I’m not. Right now, I’m working at my desk, and Mackenzie is sleeping on the couch five feet away from me. Momming is crashing on the couch opposite, as your daughter independently works through all the friend drama from school today.
