Thursday, February 21, 2008

The Sweatshop of Motherhood and other thoughts for this morning

I love my children. I love my husband. And on most days, I would choose to be with both my children, and my husband, pretty much all the time. But on this frigid, icey morning, after a night of mere shards of sleep due to two sick children, and an 8am ROOT CANAL (can we all sound a collective "poor judy", please), I longed to just return to my home, to someone's bed (i'm not that picky anymore), throw the covers over my nest of a hairdo, and pretend to be in hybernation. Even for an hour. However, Mr. Sombar, my less-than gracious, tyrant of a husband, felt it necessary to speed his happy slappy off to work, barely slowing the car down to let me out, in my novacaine stupor (actually- that is a lie- he did slow the car down- in fact, he parked it, let me out, along with 3 of my 4 children, then proceeded to announce that he had not, indeed, fed the baby this morning because he'd given his other offspring chips for breakfast- and the baby couldn't eat them because he has only 2 teeth. after ten minutes of bickering over the very obvious issues here- he agreed to put Seth in his highchair, pour some jarred food down his throat, after which he quickly handed him to me, as I lay grumbling in Ben's bed, to nurse and put down for a nap. Upon leaving Seth's room, still in my stupor, I noticed my less than compassionate husband reading the latest issue of Newsweek in the kitchen, which he justified by saying he was just waiting to say goodbye to me- i.e. waiting to see if a peck on my numb lips would soften my very bitter attitude- it did not!).

So, here's my problem friends. We all know by now that when you choose to be a full-time mother- you've chosen to go without a paycheck, an identity, fancy clothes, a car that doesn't resemble a house on wheels, the words "thank you" and pretty much anything else you may have had in your previous life as a career woman. And, believe it or not, I'm down with that. But, in comparison to the poor souls of the less than industrialized nations, who slave away in factories for little pay and almost no benefits, I'm not so sure that my plight is much better. Okay- my living conditions are enviable in comparison- but i work for free and when I'm sick or just had major surgery on my tooth (by a man with a heavy Russian accent, probably named Boris- I can't be sure because I couldn't understand him behind the surgical mask, whose assistant spent most of the hour and a half that he stuck needles into the pulp of my bicuspid, snarling) I don't even get time off. Not even an hour. A miserable frickin' hour. Not a whole day, not even half a day...AN HOUR PEOPLE!!! That's all I wanted- just to ease back into my life with some dignity- perhaps to take a warm shower, put on deoderant, or eat a healthful breakfast. NO. No. No No. And my husband, when begged for just 60 minutes of his a.m., replied- but YOU ARE WASTING OUR VACATION DAYS!!!! Yep. Sweatshop.

So today, fellow mothers, will you all get out your male voodoo dolls (i know you've got them hiding somewhere) and stab them repeatedly, with fervor, in the groin, in honor of me.

That's it. I'm done with my mid-grade pity-party, and I'm off to find myself a Union. Don't you think a mother's union is a good idea?


About Me

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Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States
Forty-three year-old, mother and staunch advocate of four young children, passionate warrior of truth and self, finding the soul in each day, sharing my struggles and triumphs as I live them. Mostly I do this for me, so my thoughts don't race as much at night as they used to. But I also give this to those of you who need to know, in any or every way, that you are not alone.

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