This morning I hit the snooze button and fell back asleep for fifteen minutes before I took a shower. Then I spent half an hour in the bathroom where I took my time and put on more makeup than usual, dried my hair, and even curled it. As I stood in my closet contemplating which shirt to wear, I checked my phone for the weather but found myself navigating my Facebook feed for ten minutes before I got back on track. I put on earrings and a necklace today, a change since I don’t normally wear any to work because I am always rushed in the morning.
Today I let my husband wake our daughter up, he prompted her to get dressed and she brushed her teeth while I made myself a cup of coffee and put her lunchbox in her backpack.
“Where are her socks, Lau?” He asked.
I just shrugged my shoulders and mumbled about being busy.
He let out a heavy sigh and ran back upstairs to fetch them and collected all of the garbage from the bathrooms and took out the trash, flustered.
The only thing I did to help this morning was brushed Ally’s hair for her and fought with her to take an Advil before school to ease the pain of her six-year-old molars since I am going to be too busy at work to field any more phone calls from the school. While I have written my husband’s number next to mine on every single emergency form, they only seem to call my cell phone or my desk line at work when there is an issue.
Ally slammed her fist against the kitchen table, “I’m not taking this yucky medicine.”
That was when my husband started yelling at me. I got her all wound up before leaving and was going to walk away from her emotional outburst, get in my car, and go to work. I had time to put on the jewelry but neglected my responsibilities.
Amongst his angry ramblings, he said that he’s late to work every single day after putting her on the bus. Why was I not helping? I should have woken up earlier to get her ready.
Before I left, I kissed my daughter goodbye and waved at him, and ignored the anger written all over his face as I walked out the door.
I’ve ignored his phone calls and texts asking me, “WTF” all morning because he spends 45 minutes each morning on his iPad in the bathroom.
He plays guitar for at least an hour a day if not more.
He has never washed a dish or cooked a meal for us, and he barely knows her teachers, doctors, or which shampoo she uses to wash her hair.
I’m not sure when this happened, but our daughter is not my sole responsibility. I am not a single parent. And I am not less important.