On days like today, I fear returning to work.
My husband came home late last night and went in early this morning. Our 3 y.o. woke up miserable at having missed Daddy. When a toddler gets mad, you can see it coming – the wind-up and then the pitch. He screamed for nearly 30 minutes straight, as I dressed him, hustled him through teeth-brushing and hair combing and shoe putting-on. He howled as we walked to school.
I’ll admit it – I wanted to hit him. If I though it would make it any better, I might’ve done.
At 14 weeks pregnant, the worst of my early pregnancy indignities are over. But my mood is still volatile, more so than usual. And I look forward to seeing my husband, too. After all, as a SAHM, he’s often the only adult I talk to who isn’t wearing a green apron and handing me a tall skim chai, or reporting on how my son did at nursery school that day.
At home, chaos awaited. After living through an insane amount of DIY in our last house, my husband begged me to hire contractors for all future home improvement. But despite promises that the painters were coming today to quote on the job, they never showed, never called – and my own calls failed to resolve the situation. It’s the kind of frustration that is small and completely uncompensated. My husband wonders what the hell I do all day. So far, I’ve spent three hours:
* Squiring a crying child to school. Managing to calm him down en route, but just barely.
* Eating a leftover bagel while on hold with various helpful folks at the Home Depot, none of whom could explain why the painter hadn’t called. It was my second call in two days.
* Wondering whether I can trust the painter who handed me his card while I was looking at paint chips, since clearly the Home Depot contractor isn’t a reliable soul to whom I’d like to open my home and surrender my wallet.
* Figuring out where to redirect our tax bill, which our mortgage company’s automated attendant assures me they only need in one of several circumstances. Attempting to guess if our circumstances apply. Deciding it can’t hurt and navigate phone menu until I locate proper address.
* Talking to our accountant to set up a follow-on appointment to pick up our completed returns and start planning for the upcoming tax year. We’ll likely be subject to the Alternative Minimum Tax – a cruel joke on middle class families in expensive urban areas.
* Completing paperwork to enroll baby #2 in part-time childcare, despite my uncertainty as to when or if we’ll actually require childcare. I’ve decided that my sanity probably argues for enrolling my second child sooner rather than later, however, so I’m going to reserve her a spot.
* Loading the dishwasher, making the bed, returning stray items to their proper homes. These are small things that no one does, save yours truly.
And that’s just it. All of these things – the irritations of tax bills, the considerable effort it takes to keep even a brand new home up and running, dealing with our son’s school routine, keeping up with the housework – are squarely on my shoulders.
I fear all of this, a second child and a job, too.
Because I’ll crack. I will fall to pieces.
While my husband talks about the stress of being the sole breadwinner, and I talk about the frustrations of not using my skills, the truth is that he’s content to let me deal with the endless headaches of our lives. When we both worked, I still did most of these things. Or we simply ignored them, and hoped for the best.
I miss my career – oh I do, I do! – but I worry that we’ll capsize under the weight of it all.
Sometimes, it feels like I’ll be living in limbo – unemployed, restless, irritated – for the remainder of my days.
