#03: Letters to My Husband

Can You Help Me Loosen the Tight Grip of Motherhood?

An ongoing series called Letters to my Husband. The first of which was published by Hatch. Letters to my Husband is an anthology of the good, the dark, and the messy that we endure with our partner that, for whatever reason, we omit from talking about.

Dear Sh*t Head,

Life as a couple implies decisions. As a couple we have to decide what we eat, what time we go to bed, and sometimes, on really needy days, what clothes we should wear. When one of us needs to shower, it is up to the other to decide how the sequence of the day should go so that the other can do so. When one of us gets hurt, it is up to the other to decide whether or not the hurt person should seek medical attention. Decisions for a single person are hard enough, but as a couple, all things that require decisions are doubled. And with kids involved, that triples! Quadruples! I understand it’s hard to be on the cusp of decision making at all times of the day, but I regret to inform you you’ve made a terrible one.

Last night, you made a big mistake. It is something that, even on the following day, I still lament over. There is a busted pipe in the flow of my day thanks to what you did. As a matter of fact, there is no ebb and flow today at all, only chaos. One more thing to add to the list of aggressions towards me (and trust me, there are many!). The straw that broke open the gates to a laundry list of shelved emotions. Last night, you took my favorite pillow away and touched my foot with your foot.

I do not know what came over you. To think that you can extend your foot to cross over to my side of the bed to touch my foot. It is a level of gall that I, as a woman trained in keeping her limbs to herself, could never comprehend. How did you let this happen? This act of free will has provoked me. 

As I come to think of it, I have a bone to pick with you. Another thing I don't appreciate is figuring out what everyone is supposed to eat all the time. If you ask me, I like to spend my time in the kitchen grazing, picking over day-old cold cuts and nibbling on Wheat Thins. For me, this is sustenance. I certainly do not have the bandwidth to figure out where you and the rest of the people that live here (our children) are supposed to locate a full entree of a meal. It is certainly none of my business what you all consume. What triggers me most is that I am a sucker for good kitchen vibes - to walk into our kitchen and hear our espresso machine cooing to me, as if to say: Your hot coffee is coming soon Master, to let the butter sit out so that it melts delicately once spread on my toast, to sit down and doom-scroll with one hand and sip and eat with the other. It’s hard to have this kind of kitchen serenity with you and the kids in the mix. And sorry but, this needs to be said, the vibes in this kitchen lately? Totally off.

Over the years I have simply evolved into a response unit, a transmitter, severing ties with my own needs to cater to the needs of others. I imagine my womanhood detaching, slowly leaving me unbodied, a mere ghost that follows people around to pick up after them, a miasma of nurture and bitterness. I have begun to suspect that I have handed my life over to some underground bureaucratic entity, solely focused on denying the importance of my being in order to keep your ego intact. 

You see, there’s no time to play footsies when you feel like you’re shrinking. When you feel like you’re screaming inside. 

But, because of this, I also find intense joy in testing the limits of my autonomy. It is thrilling to think of my capacity to randomly dangle a few threats here and there, potentially kick starting our day with something unexpected. For example, at any given moment I could say to you: Today I want to be alone! The baby’s last feeding was at 5:30am and the toddler must watch Cocomelon’s Peekaboo at least 23 times in order to sustain some sort of peace. May the odds be ever in your favor. Goodbye, good luck, good riddance!

Sigh, to be alone. To be alone! 

Let me backtrack a little. Do I want to abandon you people? No, I don’t. I’ve seen too many movies and read too many books to know that these selfish impulses should remain a locked-up fantasy, only to be relished within the confines of my mind. Remember when our toddler was 4 months old and I had to leave for Dallas for a week for a work trip? That week of separation still swims in my Olympic sized pool of “bad mom” guilt. It was over two years ago and it is still taking complete ownership of the pool, my Michael Phelps of guilt, if you will. It’s difficult to understand that someone will lose if I decide to put myself first, and that I will lose if I put them first. So I take the losses, over and over. Is there a manager I can speak to about this? 

In this reality, nap time reigns supreme. Nap time is a time to regroup and refocus on the battle that is still only half fought. It is a very precious, limited time. Do you not know that I use nap time as a time to liaise with my former life? A life that doesn’t include you or children. A former lover that never gets enough of my time. Obviously, I’m talking about the internet. And for some reason, you insist on having conversations with me during this time? Please understand my politics and let me doom scroll in peace!

My love for you people is completely debilitating, a weight that on some days is too much to bear, my loyalty a put-down to my own little existence. But the biggest luxury a woman like me can find, in this desperate state, is uninterrupted time. As I write this letter to you, Sh*t Head, many interruptions have taken place: you’ve walked in on me about 12 times with 12 different questions that I have likely already answered many times before, our toddler has refused to use his potty and is blaming me for the YouTube ads that interrupt his Cocomelon viewing, and our baby needs, no, thrives, when he is held by me. Privacy is a double standard: my thoughts take days, sometimes weeks to take shape. Your thoughts and the little conversations you have on your little headset are intellectual gold, everything coming to a full halt so that you can brainstorm and materialize them as soon as possible.

So yes, you touched my foot with your foot and it has caused an unraveling. An uproar, a rapture. The emotions? They’re running rampant. The thought of your free-will is triggering. So much so that your conscious impulse to violate my bed space has me on a tangent. How much harder do I have to work at self-love? Why does my love for these people I live with (my family) feel like a double edge sword?

See you tonight. Word to the wise: Stay on your f*cking side.

Signing off,

A Woman at War

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This letter was inspired by many powerful reads that talk about the paradox of Motherhood. Moms are tormented! And that is something that for me personally, am really f*cking happy to see it have more visibility:

1. The Lost Daughter on Netflix; I am learning the hard way that men should not watch this movie. I have received many complaints! Says a lot doesn’t it?

2. Mommy is Going Away for Awhile

3. The Perpetual Rage of Motherhood

4. Omicron Means Parents Are Doing It All Again, Except This Time Dead Inside