[upd] — Mutha Magazine

The only way out isn’t a chore chart. Chore charts are just another thing for us to manage. The only way out is to stop being the server. To let the Wi-Fi crash. To let someone else reboot the router.

I tried to go on strike once. A quiet one. I stopped reminding. I stopped refilling the soap dispenser. I stopped mentally tracking the expiration date on the car seat. For three days, we lived in chaos. The four-year-old wore two different rain boots. The baby ate a cracker off the floor of the bus. My husband looked at me with genuine confusion: “Why didn’t you say something?” mutha magazine

While brushing my teeth, I was mentally processing: Preschool snack sign-up (tomorrow), pediatrician appointment reschedule (the rash is back), dog’s flea meds (three days late), my mother’s birthday (next week, no card), and the exact location of the spare lightning cable (behind the couch, left cushion). The only way out isn’t a chore chart

The cruelty of the default parent role isn’t the exhaustion. It’s the of the work. Because if you do your job perfectly, no one notices. The kids get to school. The socks match. The prescription is filled. The silence of success is the absence of crisis. And in that silence, the world tells you: See? It’s not that hard. You’re just relaxing. To let the Wi-Fi crash

Because saying something is the job, too. The project management of asking for help is often harder than just doing the task yourself. The mental load of delegating is a second shift no one clocks.

It’s the ghost that lives in your skull, whispering reminders during sex. It’s the spreadsheet you run while you’re trying to enjoy a glass of wine. It’s the fact that I can tell you, without looking, that we have 11 wipes left, but I cannot tell you the last time I finished a thought.

I didn’t know I was signing up for a middle-management job where I’m the CEO, the janitor, the cruise director, and the emotional support animal.