I'm Jealous of My Husband

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If I'm being honest, I do, too. I freelance. I blog. I've been somewhat successful in these endeavors, and on good weeks, I feel like that success grows larger every day. But on weeks like this one -- weeks where I've been swamped with chores and preparing for our move, when I haven't had much time to write at all, let alone think about pitching ideas or ways to sell my writing -- it's hard to remember that. It's hard not to feel like I've been reduced to She Who Is An Expert at Fecal Clean-Up.

As much as I enjoy my life as a stay-at-home parent, I feel a weird sense of shame about the simplicity of my life now, about the small things that now bring me a sense of accomplishment. Small feels like the only word to describe so many things in my day-to-day, and it's a hard adjustment to make when everything else you've ever accomplished or planned for your life has been big, bold, and exciting.

I've had jobs, and I've traveled. I've lived overseas and in a big city. I've completed a degree, I'm training for a half-marathon, and this month, I've committed to writing an entire novel in 30 days. I am a whole lot of person, a person in every way equal to my husband and with a similarly fantastic-sounding life, but I forget that. I forget who I am, and I feel these pangs of frustration, of jealousy, of isolation.

Sometimes I rail against them, and you can find me thrashing about, rattling on and on about the life I should be living and what I'm going to do to make it that way. But other days, days like today, I lean into those emotions, and I let them wash over me and continue on their way because I know, just as my husband does, that it's just Jason's Deli, and it's just a little poop. All of this is temporary. And whether I'm the Secretary of State or a stay-at-home parent of 37 kids, it is who I am, not what I do, that defines me.

 

Photo Credit: associatedfabrication.

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