One day you have a nice house with nice things in it and the next you're living in filth that can only be created by a three year old and a new born. Pee, poop, vomit, juice, dirt, paint, washable markers that are not so washable, boogers (those not eaten, of course), and a variety of mystery fluids and goo cover every surface of what was once a lovely home. Living with a toddler is like being invaded by rabid squirrels that treat your slice of paradise like their favorite tree. If you took a black light to my house it would glow so bright your eyes would burn out. What really gets you though is not the mess, the sticky spot on the floor you keep meaning to wipe up but forget about until you step in it, it's not the three year old screaming for a fourth Popsicle, or the warm baby vomit running down your back. No, what gets you is the feeling that you are the only person in the universe of your home that recognizes you're living in squalor. Amazingly a husband can be sitting in the next room, in easy ear shot of the children crying and his wife having a melt down and never once think to offer assistance. This same husband can look at a pile of dishes in the sink and think, I wonder when the kitchen elves will come and magically transform these dishes from dirty to clean! But the most amazing thing about this husband is that at the end of a day filled with fussy children, laundry, dishes, digging through piles of dress up clothes to find the right pair of fairy wings, cooking dinner, and trying to get three year old to eat said dinner, this husband will wonder why you no longer have sex. Really? Really? What woman wants a man who has become someone else to clean up after? Someone else to feed. When a wife becomes a maid and a cook sex is no longer a service covered by her contract. Now, if the husband in question spontaneously took a load of towels out of the dryer, folded them, and put them away (or at least folded them) that just might count as foreplay. If he threw in some flowers he'd at least get himself a blow job. It's not that married women don't want to have sex (well, sometimes we don't) it's that after running a marathon day after day all we want to do at the end of it is carbo load and fall into a deep sleep (until the baby cries, the three year old has a nightmare, or husband's snoring shakes you awake).
So to all the jurls out there with screaming kids and domestically challenged husbands that complain you live "like roommates" I salute you. And i challenge you to find away to carve a piece out of the day for yourself. Recognize how amazing you are and when you ask yourself "is this really my life" know that the details of frustration, anger, sorrow, laughter, joy, ambivalence, wonder, and love make the larger picture of who you are and your true place in the world. When you're trying to load 25 bags of groceries into your car while your toddler is screaming for the candy you already feel guilty about buying, and you watch in despair as the Golden Delicious apples you just dropped roll around the parking lot, and you're trying desperately to hold back a gallon of pee (you've been drinking your water like a good girl) .....it's in this moment that you are a warrior. A goddess on earth. So don't dwell on the details of the train wreck, marvel over your survival.