I don’t like working.
I mean, I don’t mind working. I like my job. I liked it a whole lot more when I was there 32 hours a week, when my hours are reduced to eight hours a week, it’s just enough to be irritating and not enough to feel like I’m actually doing anyone any good.
I was at work today all day – which is exceedingly rare. But I had missed some hours earlier in the month and was making them all up at once. So I worked for eight hours, and came home…
Marc works so incredibly hard all week long. I know that. And I do the house stuff. I mean, I do the bulk of the childcare, handle all of the executive decisions that go along with three kids, plus all the housework. ALL the housework. Marc does the trash, picks up dog/kid vomit when he’s home, and kills the bugs. He also mostly puts away leftovers.
But the rest of the stuff… it’s mine.
And mostly, I’m cool with it. I’m home, after all. And we’ve always had this mutual understanding. He couldn’t work the hours he does if I wasn’t at home taking care of the stuff there. I couldn’t do the at home stuff if he wasn’t working the hours he does to support it. But it falls apart when I’m at work and he’s at home. Because I’m not making anywhere near as much money as he is, and he works so hard during the week. It’s his day off. But I’m at work, and coming home to a sinkful of dishes, kids that are crying with headaches and see me and beg for food, dog vomit on the bed that hasn’t been cleaned, and laundry that’s bubbling over…. God, I get so frustrated.
I know that stuff goes on all day, and he worked with Julie on her girl scout project, and he’s not feeling great – but I can’t help feeling like a bitch because I’M SO DAMN FRUSTRATED.