One morning, I found myself unleashing my frustration on an old, forgotten plastic toy, smashing it repeatedly on the floor like a wild woman. Pieces flew everywhere, and in my frenzy, I even managed to slice my finger open. There it lay—a chaotic mess that mirrored my emotional state. The remnants of my rage were scattered across the floor alongside a hefty dose of my pride. Afterward, I swept up the debris, feeling a mix of relief and guilt for indulging in such a childish outburst.
The night before, the catalyst for my fury had been my husband’s quest for a clean towel. With a mountain of dirty ones piling up in the laundry, the only option left was a beach towel. I was glued to the couch, typing away on my laptop, fully immersed in my writing. In my head, I’m a writer; in reality, I’m a housewife with a hobby. I used to be a teacher, and now that the kids are in school, I find myself in the role of a full-time homemaker.
As the designated keeper of clean towels, I felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I’ll be honest—being a housewife doesn’t mean I’m striving for perfection in housekeeping. Sure, the kids are off at school, but I’m not spending my days meticulously organizing or folding laundry. My aim is to find a balance, somewhere between chaos and order, with random bursts of brilliance and moments of feeling inadequate because I have a life outside of housework.
Back to the towel debacle—my husband, towel in hand, had a few questions that I couldn’t help but interpret through the lens of marital tension. “How many towels do we have?” he asked, implying it should be easy for me to keep track of the laundry. “Why aren’t there any clean towels?” was basically code for “Why are you on your laptop when you could be washing towels?”
Does he deserve a clean towel? Absolutely. But being questioned about my household duties triggered something inside me. It felt outdated and frustrating that despite our shared responsibilities, I was still the one accountable for the mess. So, we had a disagreement, went to bed angry, and the next morning, I found myself cleaning in a fit of rage.
I was upset—not just about the towels but the imbalance in our dynamic. Despite my strong will and feminist beliefs, the absence of my own income makes me feel like I hold less power in our relationship. My husband does share the load, but sometimes, the burden of household chores is disheartening. I’m the one who manages the chaos, and it often feels overwhelming.
So, I vented my frustrations on that plastic toy and cleaned up afterward. It was a dramatic, perhaps silly, reaction, but it cleared my mind. I realize that fulfillment doesn’t come from an empty laundry basket. Instead, I find it when I write. Crafting stories nourishes my spirit, and I won’t compromise on that. Sure, I might not win any awards for writing about my husband’s less-than-pleasant habits, but I’m part of a larger community of moms, and that’s where my voice matters.
If only my writing could pay the bills! Maybe I’ll pen a bestseller and then I can tell my husband, “Hey, I’m too busy with work for all this cleaning. Let’s share the chores!” That sounds pretty great to me. But first, I’ve got some towels to fold.
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In summary, being a housewife doesn’t define my entire existence; I’m a writer at heart. While I juggle household responsibilities, I also strive to pursue my passion for writing. The journey may be messy, but it’s also filled with moments of clarity and purpose.