More Than A Manny

Whenever I would tell my husband that I wished he would come home, he’d joke that it wasn’t really him I wanted, but a manny (definition: male nanny). He assumed that I only wanted help with the kids and the home, preferably from a male help-mate.

The truth is, he was right. I craved help in the long days when he was at work and I was home juggling diapers and dinners and drives. But he was also wrong for debasing my desire for a partnership as something that was problematic. Helping the person that you married is a legitimate way to love someone and craving that help is not “nagging” but a reasonable need to be loved in that way. When love is involved, it is never just about the service done and it cannot be replaced by a housekeeper or nanny. (Although, that would certainly help!).

Still, I’m now wary about making new claims about “missing” my husband when he’s not around.

This motherhood job is hard. I’m not comparing. I don’t want to compare who has it worse between stay-at-home-moms with one baby and stay-at-home-moms with 6 kids. I don’t want to compare my current situation with moms who work outside of the home. I’m not comparing married moms with single moms or with co-parenting moms. And I don’t want to compare the work I do to the work my husband does. We all have it hard; Different circumstances, but the same feelings. Comparison is the thief of joy. Yet somehow these conversations always turn into who has it worse and who has done more. And then, we’re left feeling more alone than ever. So, I’m not going there. I’m staying here, exactly where I am, saying that it is hard.

Dan and I both believe that marriages, like any long-term relationship, goes through seasons. Everyone knows about the honeymoon phase. But there are so many seasons in a long life shared together. Right now we’re in a season where there are three young children at home and Dan is working on a few exciting projects and I have stopped working a traditional 9-5 and we’re doing our best to make it work. This is the season we’re in. When my best friend recently worried that I was pushing myself too hard I told her that I remind myself that right now I need to push hard. I’m focused on getting us to a place where we won’t have to anymore. I think Dan’s thinking is the same. This is the place we’re at right now and while it’s hard, we’ve become accustomed to it.

So no. I don’t miss him like that anymore. I don’t expect or even hope for him to come home and take the burden off of me, now. This is how we live out our partnership because he does do work. A lot of it.

In this season, I wake up in the morning and get all three kids fed and ready for the day. I drive my kids and my family to the places they need to go. Back and forth. Back and forth. In and out and in and out of car seats. I make sure everyone is fed. I put the baby to bed, and if Dan needs me to put the big kids to bed too, then I have no problem doing that. I get it done. While a nanny, or a manny, or a housekeeper would be nice, the truth is, I’ve got this. I don’t count the hours until Dan comes home anymore. I count the hours until bedtime.

I mean, I think I’ve got this. Maybe I just know I can do this, if “this” is getting the kids through the day alive and relatively unscathed. It is rarely easy. Yesterday, I had already locked myself in the bedroom at 8 am for a ten-minute reprieve. I listened to two hours of screaming from the baby last evening, which started while I was trying to get one kid changed from swimming (no easy feat when you have two other kids hanging off of you), and lasted all during supper prep until I eventually just put his tired butt to bed, early (which of course resulted in a 2:30 a wake-up and bottle). The last thing I said to my kids before they drifted off to sleep, in tears, was about how angry I was that THEY WOKE UP THE BABY. When everyone was finally asleep for the night, I just curled up on the couch unable to do anything but feel absolutely terrible about life until I moved my pity party and glass of wine to my big, empty bed.

Dan was gone for two nights. He left before any of the kids woke up on Tuesday morning. But had he been in town, I probably would not have been saved from locking myself in the bedroom to get away from the noise or from getting a kid dressed after swimming with a crying baby pulling at me or those two following hours of non-stop screams or the epic freakout I had at the kids last night (not to mention other times during these past few days). In fact, had he been around, I probably would have had to put the kids in their shoes and coats and those friggin car seats one more time to pick him up from the bus stop each day after work.

But I still missed him. I missed him a lot. I was legitimately sad that he was gone.

We’re in a season where I am doing the majority of the caregiving and housekeeping work. I no longer expect a break the moment my husband gets home though it is nice when he helps. When you strip away the duties, what is left over is the person and that’s what I still miss when he’s not here. When I’m overwhelmed, I don’t necessarily need to be whisked away from what I’m doing at home, but I want my partner with me. I want him because he’s my friend and the person I can lean on. And I have been missing him lately not because my work at home has increased but because my time spent with him has decreased. I miss my husband, not my manny. Not my housekeeper.

Though, if I ever have a manny or a housekeeper, I’m sure I’d miss them if they ever left me. But they would never be allowed to leave me.