Its Saturday morning and the house is quiet. Scott has left to run errands. The girls have gone out to lunch and for a day of shopping in Freeport. Taylor has left for the day with his grandmother. I should be relaxed. I should be relishing in one of the few moments of alone time I ever get. But no, I can not.
I was awaken by my 16 year old son letting me know that grammy had arrived to pick him up and, "Could you wash my clothes while I'm gone because Charlie (our dog) knocked 'em on the floor and now they stink." Yes, good morning to you too, my sweet child.
I stretched out in my bed and let out a sigh. Sitting up, I see Scott's desk. That desk that I seem to be cleaning all of the time that I never use, covered in scraps of paper. His computer surrounded by half empty coffee cups and plates he was too lazy to bring up to the sink. I gather the dishes and carry them upstairs.
Entering the kitchen I see the remnants of everyone else's morning. A frying pan with egg scraps sitting on the stove. The coffee pot pulled out to the edge of the counter, little pools of coffee dripped on the counter and a wadded up ball of paper towel next to the mess. The sink, which was empty when I went to bed last night, was full again with every piece of the glassware in the house. I reluctantly got to work on cleaning up the mess.
After wiping down the counters, I leave the kitchen and turn the corner into the livingroom. I can see that my girls slept in there again; two balled up comforters on the floor - which the dogs have made into chew toys so there are little bits of blanket batting strewn about the space. I mumble a few choice cuss words under my breath and salvage what I can of the blankets. I grab the broom and sweep the floor.
Next I begin the chore that will last all day - the laundry. That means going around the house and collecting from each of the children's bedrooms. I open the girls bedroom doors and that's when I decide I've had enough. I can't even see the floors of either of their bedrooms. There are clothes everywhere.
I'm really not quite certain why I crave my weekends so badly. I'm pretty sure that I do more physical work on the weekends than I do at my actual job. I live in a two parent home, both parents work. Why am I still the only one who gets to spend my time away from work cooking, cleaning, running the kids around and doing all of the shopping? I'll tell you why; because I have a vagina. My not-husband works all day, comes home to a clean house, a hot meal, clean towels and clothes. He gets to sit on his computer and fuck-off for 5 hours before he crawls into the bed that I make everyday and change the sheets on. By the time I've had a chance to get showered and into bed, he's already been relaxing for 3 or 4 hours. Sometimes, I wish my name were Dad.