Working from home wasn’t supposed to make me my wife’s full-time assistant. Yet, for three long years, I found myself balancing my career, the responsibilities of childcare, and managing our home. Everything changed when my mom stepped in, leading to unexpected outcomes.
“I never imagined becoming Ruby’s full-time servant,” I grumbled, balancing dishes and emails.
Our marriage initially promised shared duties. However, the arrival of twins and Ruby’s demanding job turned the tide. After the twins were born, Ruby returned to work just two months later to focus on her career, having agreed upon our decision for me to take on childcare, thanks to my home-based job.
“I can handle this,” I reassured myself. “It won’t be forever and Ruby will eventually be able to share responsibilities.” But that day never came.
In the early months, I was more than just a babysitter. I was feeding, changing diapers, and cleaning after the kids. Ruby returned home each night, utterly drained, usually collapsing on the couch with a simple, “Can you handle dinner?”
Juggling the boys and the kitchen wasn’t what I had in mind, but I attempted to accommodate her work exhaustion against my own full-day oversight of our home.
As time wore on, I realized Ruby began to take for granted the upkeep at home. I was no longer just their dad but also the house chef, cleaner, and errand runner.
“Can you grab my dry cleaning?” she’d inquire as she stepped out.
Their start at kindergarten represented an anticipated break for me, yet Ruby’s view of me as the default caretaker remained unchanged. Despite managing my full work schedule, just like Ruby’s.
So one night, I approached her to discuss sharing chores. “Ruby,” I said after the kids were asleep, “We need to share the load better. I’m juggling far too much.”
Her gaze reluctantly rose from her phone. “But you’re at home all day; you have more time,” she contended.
Pushing down my mounting frustration, I clarified, “I work full-time too. This housework isn’t as simple as being just at home. I need some assistance.”
Holding a weary tone, she implored, “I’m worn out by the day’s end. My job is draining; can’t you continue managing for now?”
Her apparent lack of awareness left me simmering. How did she not perceive my weariness? Our household’s tidiness fell solely to me, despite its toll.
Missing my friends felt critically wrong too; my freedom vanished into work, cleaning, childcare cycles, unseen by Ruby.
My tipping point arrived unexpectedly when Mom dropped over one afternoon, some homemade lasagna in tow.
Upon entering, I found myself cooking, laundering, and typing replies simultaneously. Her expression conveyed her astonishment.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, startled.
“Just the usual routine,” I replied wearily.
“Always this way?”
With a nod, I lamented my circumstances. “Ruby’s swamped, so I manage. It’s tough, Mom. I’m missing a social life; I’m worn out.”
Her concern flared into determination. “This must change. I know the solution,” she declared, reaching for her phone.
“What’s your plan, Mom?”
The next day, Ruby’s work call highlighted her vexation. “How could you? Yoga, waxing, manicure—all scheduled,” she blurted.
“What happened?” I puzzled.
“Your mom left me to handle everything! She’s whisking you off with friends to a spa,” Ruby protested.
Mom hadn’t forewarned me about this intervention.
Mom took the phone, explaining firmly, “Ruby, you’ve burdened him for too long. He deserves balance and assistance.”
A long silence followed; Ruby hadn’t anticipated this wake-up call.
“But—” Ruby stammered.
“No more,” Mom retorted. “He’ll take a break; you’ll manage the household. Experience your husband’s usual day-to-day.”
The call concluded, leaving me touched by my mother’s intervention. At last, I felt acknowledged and supported.
During our spa retreat, my worries dissipated. Responsibilities fell away, a rare luxury.
“I never grasped my exhaustion until now,” I murmured, soaking at ease in the hot tub, feeling tension dissolve.
Meanwhile, back home, Ruby began bearing the brunt of an entire day’s tasks solo. Breakfast, playtime, upkeep—it all fell to her.
Upon my return Sunday evening, Ruby’s tired appearance hinted at newfound appreciation. “I’m truly sorry,” she cried, embracing me. “I misjudged your burden. It’s daunting.”
I assured her, “Things must change; we must work together, share this life.”
She pledged to adjust her work hours, prioritizing family. To my relief, she voiced intent to not lose our family.
Over time, balance slowly returned, with her lighter office workload reflecting at home.
It took time, but gradually, our bond strengthened. Finally, we were in sync—not merely cohabitating, but genuinely participating together.
This ordeal fortified me, affirming it’s not wrong to seek fairness. Now, I’m certain we’re progressing on a shared, hopeful path forward.
