Maternity leave is a blur of baby care and housework, but my husband, Trey, called me lazy for buying a robot vacuum, assuming I slack off. I flipped the script to show him my reality, and it reshaped our partnership.
The baby monitor wakes me at 3 a.m., a sound more consistent than any clock. The room’s dark, but sleep is long gone. I pick up Sean, my newborn, his cries growing as he reaches for me. Nursing him, I feel love and exhaustion collide. I was once a marketing star, managing work and home with precision. Now, my life is feedings, diapers, and a house I can’t keep clean. Success is a short nap or a moment to eat.
Trey doesn’t see it. He leaves each morning, crisp and professional, for a world of meetings and solutions. When he gets home, the house is a mess—dishes piled, laundry scattered, crumbs everywhere. Dust bunnies are practically citizens. “What a wreck,” he sighs, dropping his bag. I’m folding Sean’s clothes, my back sore, hair a mess. “I’ve been busy,” I say, holding back tears. Sleep deprivation is my new normal.
“Help out,” I suggest, eyeing the sink. Trey snorts. “Why? You’re home. I’m the one working.” I explain Sean’s constant needs, but he smirks. “He eats and sleeps. That’s hard?” My frustration builds. “I’m doing it all, Trey. It’s endless.” He shrugs. “Plan better. Don’t let it pile up.” He adds, “You’re on vacation, chilling in pajamas.” Anger grows, slow and hot.
Before Sean, we split chores, not perfectly, but it felt fair. Now, I’m unseen, a servant in my home. When my parents send birthday cash, I buy a robot vacuum to ease the chaos. I’m thrilled, nearly tearing up as I set it up. Trey’s outraged. “A robot vacuum? Lazy!” he snaps. “We’re saving for a trip, not buying toys for moms who won’t clean.” His words burn. I’m buried in work, and he dismisses me? I don’t argue. I smile, scheming.
The next morning, Trey’s phone vanishes. “Where is it?” he asks. I shrug. “People used letters. Save money.” Three days later, he’s frazzled, muttering about stress. Then his car keys disappear. “I need to work!” he yells, grabbing my phone for an Uber. I cancel it. “People walked,” I say, echoing his tone. “Don’t be lazy.” He stomps out, walking to his office.
I stop all chores but Sean’s care. By week’s end, the house is a disaster—no clean shirts, bare fridge. “What’s going on?” Trey asks, shocked. I look up, feeding Sean, calm. “I’m lazy, right? Doing nothing?” He’s quiet. Next day, he brings limp flowers, chastened. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t understand.” I hand him a list of my daily tasks—feedings, chores, wake-ups. He reads, stunned. “This is intense,” he says. “That’s my life,” I reply.
Therapy helps Trey share the load. The robot vacuum stays, my symbol of strength. Motherhood is a full-time job with no breaks, led by a tiny boss. Trey’s changing, and I’m stronger for it.
