On maternity leave, I’m drowning in baby duties and chores, but my husband, Trey, called me lazy for buying a robot vacuum, thinking I lounge all day. I decided to teach him a lesson about my reality, and it’s one he won’t forget.
The baby monitor blares at 3 a.m., pulling me from sleep. Darkness fills the room, but rest is a distant memory. I scoop up Sean, my newborn, as his cries grow louder, his tiny hands grabbing for me. Nursing him in the quiet, I’m both connected and exhausted. Before Sean, I was a marketing pro, juggling work and home like a champ. Now, my life is diapers, feedings, and a losing battle to keep the house tidy. Success means a 20-minute nap or remembering to eat.
Trey doesn’t get it. He leaves each morning, polished and professional, for a world of meetings and emails. When he comes home, the house is chaos—dishes piled high, laundry spilling over, crumbs everywhere. Dust bunnies are practically roommates. “What a mess,” he sighs, dropping his bag. I’m folding Sean’s clothes, my back aching, hair a mess. “I’ve been busy,” I say, biting back tears. Sleep deprivation is a beast, and I’m running on empty.
“You could help,” I suggest, eyeing the dishes. Trey scoffs. “Why? You’re home all day. I’m the one working.” I explain that caring for Sean is relentless, but he smirks. “He eats and sleeps. How hard is that?” My frustration grows. “I’m juggling everything, Trey. Laundry, meals, cleaning—it never stops.” He shrugs. “Plan better. Don’t let it pile up.” He adds, “You’re basically on vacation, chilling in pajamas.” Anger simmers inside me, slow and steady.
Before Sean, we shared chores, not perfectly, but it worked. Now, I’m invisible, a maid in my own home. When my parents send birthday cash, I buy a robot vacuum to ease the load. I’m thrilled, nearly naming it. Trey’s furious. “A robot vacuum? That’s lazy!” he snaps. “We’re saving for a family trip, not buying toys for moms who won’t clean.” His words sting. I’m buried in chores, and he thinks I’m slacking? I don’t argue. I smile, plotting.
The next day, Trey’s phone goes missing. “Where is it?” he asks. I shrug. “People used to write letters. Let’s save money.” For three days, he searches, growing frantic. Then his car keys vanish. “I need to get to work!” he panics, borrowing my phone for an Uber. I cancel it. “People walked miles back then,” I say, echoing his tone. “Don’t be lazy.” Fuming, he walks to his office, a mile away.
I stop doing anything but caring for Sean. By week’s end, the house is a disaster—laundry mountains, no food in the fridge. “What happened?” Trey asks, shocked. I look up from feeding Sean, calm. “I’m just lazy, right? Doing nothing all day?” He goes quiet. The next day, he brings cheap flowers, looking defeated. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t get it.” I hand him a two-page list of my daily tasks—feedings, chores, wake-ups. He reads, stunned. “This is exhausting,” he whispers. “That’s my life,” I reply.
We start therapy, and Trey steps up, learning to share the load. The robot vacuum stays, a symbol of my stand. Motherhood isn’t a break—it’s a nonstop job with a tiny boss who needs everything. Trey’s learning, and I’m stronger for it.
