During my maternity leave, I find myself balancing diapers, dishes, and constant exhaustion. But it’s my husband, Trey, who keeps telling me that I’m not doing enough. When he scoffs at the mess and calls me lazy for buying a robot vacuum, I just smile and think, He has no idea what I have in store for him.
It’s 3:28 a.m. when the baby monitor crackles to life. This sound has become more reliable than any alarm clock I’ve ever had. The darkness still hangs heavy around the edges of the room, but my life has long since stopped following any normal schedule.
I used to sleep in four-hour stretches, but that feels like a distant memory, something I can barely recall now.
I pick up Sean from his crib, and his tiny hands reach out to me with a desperation that makes my heart ache. His little whimpers soon turn into full-on hunger cries. It’s time to nurse him again.
The nursing chair has become my command center. It’s where I feel both connected to him and completely drained, all at the same time.
Before Sean, I was a marketing executive. I could juggle client presentations, meetings, and strategic planning while running the house with precision. But now? My world has shrunk to diapers, feedings, and trying to keep the house in some kind of order. The difference is shocking.
These days, I measure success by how long the baby sleeps and if I can manage to eat something before 3 p.m.
Trey doesn’t get it. How could he? Every morning, he leaves the house dressed in a crisp shirt, his hair perfectly styled, his briefcase in hand. He enters a world where problems can be solved with a meeting or a quick email.
By the time Trey gets home, the house looks like a tornado has struck. Dishes are piled high in the sink, laundry is scattered across the floor, crumbs cover the kitchen counter like a map to some unknown land, and the dust bunnies in the living room are growing so large, they might soon have their own civilization.
The chaos is incredible—and, honestly, it could be avoided if he would just do something.
Trey’s reaction is always the same.
“Wow,” he says, dropping his briefcase with a heavy sigh. “It looks like a tornado hit.”
Those words feel like a slap in the face.
Here I am, folding tiny onesies and booties that seem to multiply by the hour, my back aching, my hair tangled, tucked behind my ears.
“I’ve been a bit busy,” I say, trying not to let the tears fall.
Sure, the baby hormones are gone, but I never fully understood why sleep deprivation is considered a form of torture until Sean came along.
I made the mistake of ignoring the advice to nap when the baby naps. For the first month, I pushed through, thinking that if I didn’t take care of the mess, who would? So instead of resting, I scrubbed out poop stains, folded clothes, wiped down counters, and tried to keep some semblance of order.
And now? My body feels like it’s running on empty. My eyes burn from exhaustion, and some days, I’m so tired that I swear I can hear smells.
Trey kicks off his shoes, changes his clothes, and plops down on the couch. In seconds, he goes from being a professional to a man claiming his kingdom.
“You could help, you know,” I say. “Maybe do the dishes, or throw in a load of laundry…”
Trey looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Why?” he says. “You don’t work like I do. What else do you do all day besides housework? Don’t ask me for help—I’M tired.”
“Trey, I’m caring for our son, and it’s a full-time job. Even work wasn’t this stressful.”
He wrinkles his face like I’ve just told him the sky is green. “Caring for our son, who basically just eats and sleeps, is stressful?”
“It’s not that simple. Sometimes I have to walk around the house for hours just to get him to stop crying—”
“Right, but you’re still home,” he says, frowning. “I don’t get it.”
“You could at least do the laundry,” I add, frustrated.
He looks at the sink full of dishes. “Well, if you planned your time better, you wouldn’t let everything pile up like this.”
The grip on the onesie in my hands tightens. He still doesn’t understand. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to care enough to try.
“You should be grateful,” he mutters, scrolling through his phone. “You’re practically on vacation. I wish I could just stay home in my pajamas all day.”
Something inside me begins to boil. It’s not a sudden eruption, but a slow, steady heat that’s been building for months.
Before Sean was born, our housework division was workable, though not equal. Trey would sometimes help with laundry, cook when he felt like it, or do the dishes if he was in the mood. But now? Now I feel invisible, like a ghost in my own home.
One day, after getting birthday money from my parents, I make a decision. I buy a robot vacuum. It’s something, anything, to help me manage the endless mess. When I opened it, I cried. It might seem silly, but it was a small victory for me, something to take some of the load off.
Trey’s reaction is nothing short of explosive.
“A robot vacuum? Really?” he sneers. His face twists with disbelief and anger. “That’s lazy. And wasteful. We’re supposed to be saving for a vacation with my family, not buying toys for moms who don’t want to clean.”
It feels like I’ve been slapped across the face. “Don’t want to clean?” I think to myself. I’m drowning in cleaning. Cleaning and motherhood are all-consuming. It’s my entire life now.
I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself. Why bother? He’s already made up his mind, and I know it’s pointless to try.
But instead of crying, I smile.
That’s when something inside me cracks. Exhaustion has worn me down to my last nerve, and I decide my husband needs a lesson.
The next morning, Trey’s phone mysteriously disappears.
When he asks about it, I offer a sweet, innocent smile.
“People used to send letters,” I say. “Let’s stop being so wasteful with all these electronics.”
For three days, Trey searches high and low, becoming more and more frustrated. By the end of day three, he’s snapping at shadows, muttering about responsibility and communication.
Just as he adjusts to life without his phone, his car keys vanish.
He needs them to go to work, and panic sets in. He borrows my phone to order an Uber, but I cancel it.
“People used to walk five miles to work,” I remind him, my voice dripping with the same condescension he’s used on me. “You should embrace a simpler lifestyle.”
“But I’ll be late!” he says, face turning red. “This isn’t funny!”
“Don’t be so lazy, Trey,” I echo, throwing his own words back at him like daggers.
Fuming, he storms out and walks the mile and a half to his office.
I can’t help but feel a small sense of vindictive satisfaction, but I’m not done. He thinks I do nothing all day? Fine. Let him experience what it’s like when I truly do nothing all day.
From that day forward, all I do is care for Sean. The house falls into complete chaos by the end of the week.
“Babe… what happened to the laundry? I have no clean shirts, and why is the fridge empty?” Trey asks, his eyes wide with disbelief.
I look up from feeding Sean, serene and completely unbothered. “Oh, it’s because I’m so lazy and I don’t want to clean. I do nothing all day. Didn’t you know?”
He’s smart enough not to say anything.
The next day, Trey comes home with wilted gas station roses, looking like someone who’s been through a battle—a battle I’ve fought every single day.
“You were right,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hard you’ve been working.”
I don’t let him off that easily. I hand him a two-page schedule that outlines everything I do in a day. From 5:00 a.m. baby feeds to the possible midnight wake-ups, every minute is accounted for.
He reads it silently, his face a mix of understanding and horror.
“I’m exhausted just reading this,” he whispers.
“Welcome to my life,” I respond.
Things improve slowly after that, but we realize understanding isn’t enough. We start therapy, and Trey begins to truly participate, learning what it means to be an equal partner.
And the robot vacuum? It stays. It’s a small, mechanical reminder of my quiet rebellion.
Motherhood is not a vacation. It’s a full-time job—overtime, no sick days, and the most demanding boss imaginable: a tiny human who depends on you for everything.
