Parenting
One morning, I unleashed my frustration on an old plastic toy that had long been forgotten. I slammed it repeatedly, shards of plastic flying with each strike, until one jagged edge cut my finger. There it lay—a chaotic testament to my rage. After a brief moment of catharsis, I resumed my cleaning duties. It had been a while since my inner turmoil had bubbled to the surface, and while I felt a sense of relief, I also harbored a lingering guilt for such a childish outburst.
The root of my anger had sprouted the night before when my husband, in search of a clean towel, found only a mountain of dirty ones piled high in the laundry basket. All that remained in the linen closet were beach towels. Gasp
I was on the couch, absorbed in my writing. In my mind, I’m a writer; in reality, I’m a housewife with a passion for writing. I once taught, then became a stay-at-home mom, and now that the kids are in school, I find myself in this role. But as a housewife, the duty of providing clean towels falls squarely on my shoulders. Any lapse in that duty feels like a personal failing.
Let’s be honest: Yes, I’m a housewife, but that doesn’t equate to an aspiration for domestic perfection. Sure, the kids are in school, but I’m not about to spend hours organizing and folding piles of towels. My goal is to strike a balance between order and chaos, with occasional moments of brilliance and bouts of frustration. I have other passions, too—like writing and connecting with fellow writers online.
Back to the source of my fury… My husband, towel in hand, interrupted my creative flow with a few pointed questions. With my expert wife-translation skills, I interpreted them as: “How many towels do we have?” meaning, “You’ve been home all day; isn’t it your job to get clean towels?” and “Why aren’t there any clean towels?” which was code for, “You should be doing laundry instead of typing away on your laptop.”
Did my husband deserve a clean towel? Absolutely. Did I want to explain the situation? Not really. Because, despite our traditional roles, I bristle at being questioned about household responsibilities.
Sure, the towel situation could be improved. But honestly, would it kill him to use a beach towel for once?
We argued and went to bed angry. The next morning (the infamous toy-battering morning), I dropped off the kids at school and returned home, fueled by resentment and ready to clean. I felt overwhelmed, frustrated that I seemed to carry the weight of all the mess. It was disheartening to realize that, in our relationship, I often felt less powerful, despite my fiery spirit and feminist ideals. Without my own income, I sometimes felt diminished.
While my husband shares his authority with me—using inclusive language like “ours”—it doesn’t always mask the underlying imbalance. He travels frequently and works long hours, leaving me as the constant in our children’s lives. I chose this role, to be the one who manages their activities, and while it’s practical, it can also be burdensome.
So, I took out my frustrations on that plastic toy and then cleaned up the aftermath. It might have seemed like a trivial first-world problem, but it cleared my head. I know I won’t find fulfillment in a tidy laundry basket, but writing nourishes my soul. I’ll hold onto that passion and prioritize it.
I may not be writing Pulitzer-worthy tales about my husband’s amusing habits or my quirky parenting ideas, but I’m part of a vital sisterhood of mothers. If only my writing paid better… Perhaps it’s time to craft that masterpiece. Then I could tell my husband, “Sorry, I’m busy with work. We need to split the household chores!” Now that sounds appealing.
But first, let’s tackle those towels!