A couple of days ago, I fell down the stairs at home and broke my arm. The doctor put it in a cast and told me not to lift anything heavy for the next few weeks so it could heal properly.
With 5-month-old twins, that was incredibly difficult.
So I asked my husband, Ethan, if he could at least take a day off once in a while, come home even an hour earlier from work, or work from home from time to time so he could help me with our sons.
Ethan rolled his eyes and said:
“I have a job. I’m not going to sit around with the kids.”
I tried to stay calm.
“But Ethan… my arm is broken. I’m in a cast. How am I supposed to handle two babies with one arm? I’m just asking you to help me A LITTLE.”
He shrugged and said:
“Well, sweetheart, you’re the one who wanted kids. So you take care of them. MOMS DON’T GET SICK DAYS OR DAYS OFF. That’s not my problem.”
I nearly collapsed onto the couch right then because I was so shocked by what he’d said.
I take care of our sons almost entirely on my own. I get up with them at night, feed them and rock them to sleep, change their diapers, take them for walks, take them to the doctor, and still clean the house and cook.
Ethan REALLY wanted kids too, and we’d planned the pregnancy together.
Over the next few days, I became so exhausted that I asked my mom to come over and help with the babies.
Then one day, my mom couldn’t come, and I couldn’t bathe the babies by myself.
So I asked Ethan again to help me.
He crossed his arms and said:
“I just got home from work. I’m tired. Why should I have to come home and take care of the kids too? You stay home and DO NOTHING ALL DAY.”
So taking care of two babies at home meant doing nothing?
I was completely stunned.
But I’d had enough.
It was time for Ethan to LEARN HIS LESSON.
So the next evening, when Ethan came home from work, he went pale as a ghost.
Oh yes, and that was only THE BEGINNING.
Before the night was over, he was shouting:
“NO! HOW DARE YOU?”
PART 2
Ethan stood in the entryway of our house, gaping like a fish out of water.
There were three large, matching leather suitcases resting near the front door. Sitting on the kitchen counter was a neatly typed letter, flanked by his golf clubs, his favorite video game console, and a giant cooler filled with ice packs.
I was standing near the door, wearing a traveling jacket, with my arm securely bound in its thick white cast. Standing right beside me was my mother, looking at Ethan with cold, absolute disdain.
“Clara…? What is all this?” Ethan stammered, his eyes darting wildly between the luggage and my mother. “Where are you going?”
“I’m taking my sick day, Ethan,” I said, my voice completely smooth and devoid of anger. “In fact, I’m taking two whole weeks of sick leave.”
Ethan stared at me, his mouth opening and closing. “What are you talking about?! You can’t take a sick leave! Who’s going to watch Oliver and Lucas?!”
“You are,” I replied, holding up my phone. “Since taking care of two five-month-old twins is ‘doing nothing all day,’ I figured it would be an absolute breeze for a hardworking man like you. My mom booked us a lovely two-week retreat at a medical recovery spa two hours away. I’ll be receiving physical therapy for my broken arm, resting, and getting eight full hours of sleep every night.”
“NO! HOW DARE YOU?!” Ethan roared, his face flushing crimson. “I have work tomorrow! I have a big presentation on Friday! You can’t just leave me alone with two babies!”
“Moms don’t get sick days, remember?” I quoted, stepping toward the door while my mother picked up my rolling bag. “So technically, I’m not on a sick day—I’m on strike. And since you made it crystal clear that parenting isn’t ‘your problem,’ I hired a local night-nanny to assist you… except I used your personal credit card for the retainer deposit, and she only works three hours a night.”
Ethan sprinted toward the living room, where both Oliver and Lucas suddenly started crying in unison from their playpen, demanding their evening bottles.
“Clara, stop!” Ethan pleaded, panic lacing his voice as he realized the sheer magnitude of what was happening. “I can’t feed them both at the same time! They need their diapers changed! I don’t know how the bottle warmer works!”
“Well, sweetheart,” I said, echoing his exact words from three nights ago with a sweet smile, “you’re the one who wanted kids. So you take care of them. That’s not my problem.”
Before he could scream another word, my mother and I stepped out the front door, pulled it shut, and locked it from the outside.
As we walked down the driveway toward my mother’s car, I could hear Ethan inside frantically trying to hush two screaming infants while searching for a formula tub he had never once touched in five months.