It is the seventh time I tell her. It upsets me that I am keeping count. I yell the eighth time only to elicit a “Please!” from the spouse. The rage I feel toward him is many folds larger than my irritation at my child for dallying around, refusing to shower.
It takes a toll.
This keeping track of who should be doing what, when and how. It takes a toll, this being responsible for other beings’ ability to go through their day. It takes a toll, this constant surveying of the pantry, organizing closets, washing, folding and putting away things where they need to be. It takes a toll, watching discarded clothes on the floor, toys strewn everywhere, dirty clothes airing on the bathtub, the faded bed linen. It takes a toll, the constant assessment of clothes and seasonal necessities, the ugly sweaters, team jerseys, spirit wear, and crazy socks.
They say it takes a village to raise children. Some days it feels like I would give an arm and a leg and then some for one person to share that mental load of keeping track, managing and running things so our lives do not fall apart.
The fatigue is real. The load is heavy. It is intensely lonely.
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