I make excuses to the boys and tell them to understand. I tell them that this is all normal, even though a year ago it wasn't.
A year ago, their father was a completely different man.
I tell myself that I should be more understanding of the fact that my husband works so hard to provide for his family.
That was the agreement—he would work, I would take care of the kids, the house, the bills, and keep our lives in order.
This lifestyle was a luxury that many were not afforded. Atlashadto work longer hours, stay late, and take those weekend jobs with Trace to support us and pay our bills.
The guilt eats at me that I'm never doing enough, and that Atlas has to do too much.
All I am is just a stay-at-home mom.
Why should I ever complain?
Even though I'm the one who manages our bills and makes sure they are paid on time, reorganizing the budget when littlefinancial bombs drop in.
I'm the one who cleans our house from top to bottom—mopping up muddy sneaker and boot prints from our wood floors, scrubbing the toilets, cleaning the stove, the never-ending dusting and sweeping, and dodging Legos and tripping over basketballs.
I vacuum the carpets, make the beds, do the dishes and cook all of our meals.
When something breaks around the house, or we need an appliance replaced, I'm the one on the phone with the repairman.
I plan the kids' birthday parties—buying their gifts, sending out the invitations, taking note of the RSVPs, preparing the food, and baking the themed cakes.
I keep everyone's lives in order, scheduling appointments for both boys that don't conflict with their other activities—Liam's basketball practices and games, Noah's art lessons and showcases. I’m the one calling their pediatrician for their physicals, the dermatologist for Noah's eczema, and the orthodontist for Liam's braces.
I do the school drop-off and pick-up every day. I'm designatedTeam Momfor Liam, bringing snacks for all the boys on his team.
I'm the room parent for Noah's classroom, organizing their holiday parties and chaperoning field trips. I attend every parent-teacher conference and PTA meeting.
And the sheer amount of laundry for four people, including stinky and sweaty basketball clothes, boy socks, and Atlas's dirty mechanics' overalls.
Buying, planning, and cooking the meals for four people—including an always-hungry six-foot-five bear of a man and his thirteen-year-old counterpart.
Every day after school, I’m helping the boys with their homework and projects. I’m making sure that their book bags are packed for school. I’m nagging Liam to wash his face, making sure Noah uses the right soap that won’t flare up hiseczema.
When Liam and Noah get annoyed with each other, as boys often do, I’m the bad guy, mediating arguments and disciplining them when necessary.
And I do all of this with a smile on my face because I love my husband and my children more than anything.
I don't regret any of them for a single second, but I'm supposed to be aSuper Mom, so why do I feel like a failure?
If I don't doactualwork, then why am I exhausted at the end of every night?
Why do I become so overwhelmed sometimes that I have to lock myself in the pantry just to have a few moments to myself to cry?
Why did I have to lock myself in the bathroom just to get away from the kids asking me for help, even though their dad was in the garage and perfectly capable of helping them?
Why do I no longer feel like a person?
Where did I go?
Not mom, not Mrs. Durant—Wendy.
Wendy, who liked to dance, was good at quick math and enjoyed crocheting because it gave her hands something to do.
When was the last time I even crocheted something? Or went out dancing with Taylor?
