I stood there, staring at the evidence of chaos on the bathroom counter: bits of plastic, discarded packaging from toys, and tubes of ointment. “WHO LEFT A BAND-AID ON THE COUNTER?!” I shouted. My oldest son entered the bathroom, looking guilty. “Do I resemble a house elf?” I pressed.
“No,” he replied.
“Then why do you treat me like one?” I retorted.
On my way to grab a cup of coffee, I tossed out soda cans, picked up a towel, organized the dishtowels, and cleared away some trash. When I finally sat down, I discovered a wrapper from a breakfast bar hidden under my favorite fuzzy blanket. I can’t fathom who my family thinks is responsible for cleaning this mess up. Perhaps they think God will handle it, or that it will magically vanish overnight—because it usually does, thanks to me. Yes, I’m the house elf, and it’s high time we liberate Dobby.
If it weren’t for me, our home would be overflowing with Amazon boxes. My husband eagerly brings them in from the porch, tearing them open like a child on Christmas morning, and leaves the remnants scattered everywhere: on the floor, the kitchen table, and even the bed. Reluctantly, I gather them up, separate the recyclables, and break down the boxes. No one seems to notice or care. When I pointed this out to my husband, he brushed it off with a joke—this is not a laughing matter.
I’m exhausted.
When the trash cans begin to overflow, it falls to me—Dobby, er, Mom—to save the day. My husband often opts to start a new trash bag instead of taking the current one just a few steps to the supercan. So, I take out the trash, empty the recycling bin (which is conveniently located around the corner), and then clear out every trash can in the house because no one else bothers. They just keep pushing the trash down until it explodes like a Jack-in-the-Box, then walk away. It’s disgusting. I could make a comment about living with men, but that’s unfair because cleanliness isn’t determined by gender. Still, my men seem to expect the house elf to magically tidy up every morning before school, while they enjoy breakfast or watch cartoons, blissfully unaware.
Don’t even get me started on the baseboards.
No one folds the blankets in the living room that everyone insists on having but then complains when they end up on the floor, covered in dog hair. I have to wash them again, disrupting my laundry schedule (which is one of my responsibilities). I reminded my husband the other night that without me, we’d still be using the same dish towels we hung up when we moved in back in 2007.
“Without you, we wouldn’t have any dish towels,” he said with a sleepy yawn, which is a troubling state of affairs that pretty much summarizes our household.
I manage all the doctor’s appointments, handle the kids’ prescriptions, and keep track of their medications. I call the vet and take the dog for check-ups, where I learned alone that she has incurable cancer and only a few months left. I coordinate the kids’ activities, find new ones if needed, and keep everything meticulously organized in my planner. Without that planner, I would be lost, overwhelmed by chaos while the world continues to spin. It’s become the center of my universe.
Not that my husband doesn’t contribute. He pays the bills, cooks dinner, and does the traditional husband duties, like refilling the car tires and mowing my mother’s lawn. He remembers birthdays and buys presents, and bless him, he even fixed my mother’s dryer. He could easily write a similar piece from his perspective, leaving readers thinking I’m a diva who spends her days juggling homeschooling, park visits, and a meticulous skincare routine.
Yet, he still leaves Amazon boxes lying around and drops his shoe trees on my bed along with his worn-out t-shirts, which I have to sniff to determine if they’re clean or dirty. And who is it that changes the sheets, unless there’s a dire emergency involving dog barf? That would be me. Without my nudging, the kids would likely be sleeping on the same sheets they’ve had since January. Maybe they are—I honestly can’t keep track anymore.
All I know is that yesterday, after cajoling, threatening, and pleading, I finally brought out trash bags to get the kids to clean their rooms, as my husband suggested. Welcome to my exhausting afternoon. The house elf has turned into an ogre. Then I forced them to clean the playroom, which, like Lady Macbeth’s hands, will never truly be clean without my direct intervention and a trash bag.
If only I could just hand over a few clothes and be free from this chaos! Unfortunately, that is part of the mess I need to deal with, and there seems to be no end in sight. I could stop doing everything, as some moms do, but the resulting chaos would drive me crazy, and I’d have to retreat to a tent in the backyard.
We actually have a tent.
Imagine a space free from Amazon boxes and breakfast bar wrappers where I wouldn’t have to monitor the toilet paper supply or complain about uncapped glue sticks. I wouldn’t have to pick up all the dishes strewn throughout the house, which for some reason, only I seem to notice. Perhaps I should consider that tent until everyone can manage their own mess without relying on a permanent house elf. If you’re interested in learning more about family planning and home insemination, check out this post on intracervical insemination. Also, for insights into fertility, Make a Mom has valuable resources. You can also explore news medical for excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, I’m tired of being the only one responsible for cleaning up after my family. It’s exhausting to manage all the chaos while my loved ones leave a trail of mess in their wake. I’m ready for a change, perhaps even considering the tent option until they can all step up and take responsibility for their own space.