Maternity leave is a whirlwind of baby care and chores, but my husband, Trey, called me lazy for getting a robot vacuum, thinking I do nothing. I turned his words against him with a lesson that changed our marriage.
At 3 a.m., the baby monitor jolts me awake. The room’s dark, but sleep is a faint memory. I lift Sean, my newborn, as his cries pierce the silence, his hands reaching for me. Nursing him, I’m both bonded and drained. I used to be a marketing whiz, balancing work and home with ease. Now, my world is feedings, diapers, and a messy house. Success is a quick shower or a bite of food.
Trey doesn’t understand. He leaves each morning, sharp in his unstained shirts, for a world of meetings and logic. When he returns, the house is a wreck—dishes stacked, laundry overflowing, crumbs mapping the counters. Dust bunnies are staging a takeover. “This place is a disaster,” he groans, tossing his bag down. I’m folding Sean’s tiny clothes, my body aching, hair unbrushed. “I’ve been swamped,” I say, fighting tears. Exhaustion is my constant companion.
“You could pitch in,” I say, nodding at the mess. Trey laughs. “Why? You’re home. I’m working.” I explain Sean’s demands, but he rolls his eyes. “He just eats and sleeps. That’s stressful?” My anger rises. “I’m doing everything, Trey. It’s nonstop.” He shrugs. “Manage your time. Don’t let it build up.” He adds, “You’re on vacation, lounging in sweats.” Fury burns inside me, quiet but growing.
We used to share chores, not evenly, but enough. Now, I’m a ghost, serving Trey and Sean. When my parents send birthday money, I buy a robot vacuum to lighten my load. I’m overjoyed, nearly crying as I unbox it. Trey’s livid. “A robot vacuum? That’s lazy!” he yells. “We’re saving for a trip, not buying gadgets for moms who won’t clean.” His words cut deep. I’m drowning in work, and he calls me lazy? I don’t fight. I smile, planning.
Next day, Trey’s phone disappears. “Where is it?” he demands. I shrug. “People used letters. Let’s save cash.” Three days later, he’s unraveling, snapping at everything. Then his car keys vanish. “I need to work!” he pleads, grabbing my phone for an Uber. I cancel it. “People walked miles,” I say, mimicking his tone. “Don’t be lazy.” He storms out, walking to his office, furious.
I stop all chores except Sean’s care. By week’s end, the house is chaos—no clean clothes, empty fridge. “What’s this?” Trey asks, stunned. I look up, feeding Sean, calm. “I’m lazy, right? Doing nothing?” He’s silent. Next day, he brings droopy flowers, humbled. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know.” I give him a detailed list of my day—feedings, tasks, wake-ups. He reads, shocked. “This is brutal,” he mutters. “That’s my world,” I say.
Therapy helps Trey become a true partner. The robot vacuum stays, my badge of defiance. Motherhood is a relentless job, with a tiny boss who demands all. Trey’s learning, and I’m prouder than ever.
