My Mixed Blessing

I lay there with knots in my stomach feeling like a little girl in trouble, waiting for a disapproving look, listening to the noise downstairs. I hear the rattling of pots and pans, dishes being put away. Chairs are being moved around as if someone is sweeping under the kitchen table, straightening up the room. Every once in a while, a father's voice sends one of the girls upstairs to put away toys left in the den.

The knots in my stomach tighten, and the tears fill my eyes as I begin reprimanding myself, reminding myself of how just how short I fall as the homemaker. As I go through the list of my failures, my inadequacies, I hear the vacuum cleaner begin its roar. My throat tightens, and I will myself to get out of the bed, to face the world outside of my room.

As I descend the stairs, I smell the familiar smell of cleaning products and wonder if the bathrooms have been cleaned as well, hoping that they've been left for my hands, for my redemption. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I see my husband vacuuming the living room, and the guilt is all-consuming. I speak to him, expecting to hear a single "hello," recognition mixed with disapproval.

Instead, Rowland says to me, "I thought I'd give you a head start on your week" as he gives me a kind smile. Instantly, the knots disappear, and the little girl stands there, appreciation washing over the fear of condemnation. I walk through the room, picking up a blanket and a throw pillow, helping straighten ahead of the vacuum cleaner.

Once the vacuuming is finished, my husband goes into the kitchen, talking to the girls about what they'd like for dinner. After all, it's 6:15. I should have considered dinner but instead was too consumed with my own thoughts, reprimanding myself for who I wasn't, the good wife, the good mother. Still pleasant, Rowland begins making dinner, moving through what should be my duties.

Yes, I'm thankful for a husband who is involved, not just with the house but also with the children. I'm thankful that he takes the initiative and jumps in to help. Yet, at the same time, this "blessing" seems to take my place so easily. My blessing reminds me with his loving actions of just how short I fall from the mark, just how often I fail to do "my job," just how little I do compared to those mothers, wives, homemakers around me. Feeling defeated, I trudge through the rest of my night, trying to leave my mark somewhere, hugging my girls as they cry, emptying suitcases, beginning the laundry. At this point, I'm incapable of enjoying the relaxing evening that I had planned. I MUST prove my importance, my irreplaceability in this group that I call family.