I’m More Than Just a Housewife

home insemination Kit

One morning, I went a little wild on an old, neglected plastic toy that no one had touched in ages. I smashed it repeatedly, unleashing my pent-up frustration as shards flew around, slicing my finger in the process. What a glorious mess of my rage, all over the floor, alongside a few seconds of my dignity.

And then, like a good little housewife, I got back to cleaning. It had been a while since my inner mom anger had shown itself, and I figured I was overdue for a meltdown. Honestly, I felt both relieved and guilty for throwing such a childish fit.

The root of my frustration had started the night before. My husband was looking for a clean towel after his shower, but all that was left were beach towels, as a mountain of dirty ones loomed in the laundry hamper. gasp

I was sitting on the couch, typing away on my laptop, just trying to channel my inner writer. Sure, I’m a housewife by title, but I like to think of myself as a writer with a hobby—a far cry from my former life as a teacher. Now that the kids are in school, I find myself navigating this housewife gig instead.

In this role, my husband’s towel situation is my responsibility, and any lapse means I’m not fulfilling my duties. To be clear, I’m not aiming for housekeeping perfection. Yes, the kids are at school, but I’m not spending my days organizing every inch of the house or folding endless towels. I’m aiming for a solid balance between order and chaos, with occasional moments of brilliance and bouts of feeling like a failure. Because, let’s face it, I have other things I’d rather do.

I love to write. I also enjoy connecting with my readers and fellow writers online. My blog is my sanctuary, and I indulge in it whenever I can.

So back to my outburst… With a beach towel in hand, my husband interrupted my writing to ask, “How many towels do we have?” Translation: “You’ve been home all day; how hard is it to get clean towels?” And then, “Why aren’t there any clean towels?” Translation: “You should be doing laundry instead of being glued to that laptop.”

Yes, my husband deserves a clean towel. But do I have to explain why there’s not one? Apparently, yes. But I’ll do it with a few eye rolls. I mean, come on, would it kill him to use a beach towel instead? So, naturally, we ended up in an argument and went to bed annoyed.

The next morning (the morning of my toy-bashing spree), I dropped the kids off at school and returned home to unleash my cleaning fury. I was mad—mad that I’m the only one dealing with the dirt and grime. Mad that he was right; I wasn’t pulling my weight.

I felt frustrated, knowing our chosen arrangement sometimes makes me feel less powerful. No matter how strong-willed I am, without my own income, I’m in the position of having less power in this dynamic. My husband shares the “power,” using words like “ours,” which usually works, but sometimes it feels heavy knowing I’m the one managing all the household mess.

So, I took out my anger on that plastic toy and then cleaned up the aftermath. Sure, it was a ridiculous outburst over something trivial. But my mind felt clearer afterward. I won’t find fulfillment at the bottom of a laundry basket, but I do find joy when I write. That’s what I’ll prioritize. I might not be winning any literary awards for my musings on my husband’s questionable habits, but I’m part of an important community of moms, and I have a voice in it.

If only writing paid better… Maybe I should craft a masterpiece, hit it big, and then tell my husband, “You know what? I’m busy with work now, so we need to split these chores.” I like the sound of that!

But first, I guess I should tackle those towels…

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