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The Mental Load Struggle Is Real
Here’s the thing, love of my life: I’m not your mom
This morning, I woke up early for a work call. I walked out into my living room and was disappointed but unsurprised by what I found.
I made dinner last night. Baked lemon-herb chicken, garlic bread, mesclun salad with fig balsamic dressing, and grilled artichokes. It is my ambition to cook on most nights, but lately, that goal has felt out of reach, just another unchecked box on my ever-expanding to-do list.
My husband washed his own plate, cup, and fork — a habit he began after I asked him not to leave his dishes for me after meals. I washed everything else, but, distracted by my chronic back pain that was flaring this weekend, I neglected to transfer the leftovers from the slow cooker to the fridge. This morning, it was still sitting in the slow cooker. I know he saw it because it was next to his mini-blender, and I heard him make himself a smoothie last night after I went to bed. After sitting out all night, the extra food is in the trash now.
Two of his jackets, worn yesterday, were still draped over the armchair.
The coffee maker still held the damp grounds from yesterday. The pot contained yesterday’s coffee.
