For the last ten years, my world has revolved around raising our four kids. I once had dreams of building a career, but these days, I’m fully committed to motherhood—and proud of it. Don’t get me wrong—I adore my children—but let’s be honest: it’s exhausting. Any mom knows this job never ends.
Henry, my husband, and I always had an understanding: he’d earn the income, and I’d take care of everything else. That was our deal, and I never complained.
But recently, Henry’s comments started getting sharper. He’d say things like I “do nothing all day” or call me “lazy” when he thought I wasn’t listening. The breaking point came when I asked him to reach something on a high shelf and he lost it—venting about how he was the only one working and I just got to “relax” at home.
I was floored.
So I calmly suggested we switch roles for a few days. He’d stay home with the kids and run the house, and I’d step into his shoes at the office. Confident he’d come out looking like a hero, Henry quickly agreed.
Day One.
He was cocky. Slept in 15 minutes late, brushed it off, and tossed cereal at the kids—forgetting two of them have allergies. Meanwhile, I slipped on a blouse and grabbed his office badge.
With a smirk, he said, “Don’t get too used to it. You’ll miss them by lunch.”
I left at 8:30 a.m.
By noon, I’d answered 47 emails, sat through a chaotic meeting where no one let each other finish a sentence, and wrestled with his cryptic, color-coded spreadsheet system that made absolutely no sense. It was like running a mental marathon.
But I have to admit—the quiet was… kind of peaceful. No tantrums. No flying yogurt cups. Just buzzing fluorescent lights and an endless stream of coffee.
I texted him around 2 p.m. to see how it was going. No reply.
Finally, at 3:30, he messaged back:
“Does Talia always cry this much?”
“Where’s the bottle thingy?”
“I literally can’t find a single sock.”
Welcome to the wild, babe.
When I got home at 6, it looked like a tornado had passed through.
Toys everywhere. The baby was wearing only a diaper. Our six-year-old had marker all over his face. And there was Henry—collapsed on the couch, gripping a sippy cup like it was whiskey.
“Dinner?” I asked casually.
He stared blankly. “They had… Cheerios. Again.”
I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing.
By Day Three, he was a sleep-deprived, snack-fetching zombie. He jumped every time one of the kids said, “Mom!” (which was now directed at him), and looked haunted by the sheer volume of laundry.
Somewhere around load number four, I heard him whisper, “I take back everything I said…”
But here’s the twist: I was struggling at his job, too. The pressure…