The Rantings of a Very Disgruntled (and Quite Frankly Pissed Off) Work-From-Home (Not Homemaker) Mother

My day begins by being prodded out of sleep by the abrupt rudeness of my alarm clock on my phone at 7 A.M. The baby is fussing and wiggling in his bassinet next to the bed, no doubt ready for another dose of formula. I can hear the deep breathing and light snoring of my husband in the bed next to me, sound asleep since probably around 4 A.M. He won't be lively again until at least 3 P.M.; but he has to work tonight, so he most likely will lay in bed until 4 P.M. and protest.

I stare at the ceiling while my eyesight adjusts to the morning light coming through the window to my left just behind my nightstand and my hearing attunes to the soft cooing noises coming from the bassinet as the baby works his way up to loudness - the soft inquiring noises are his warning, building up to a loud obnoxious screeching cry if he doesn't get what he wants in a few minutes. I take in a deep breath and slowly rise to a sitting position, feeling my back and my hips stretch out after being stiff from being kept in one position for the past four hours.

My robe is slung over the trunk at the foot of the bed; it's chilly in the house this morning, so I throw it over my arms and hug myself, letting my limbs regain warmth and feeling and life. I stand up and peer over the bassinet, watching my little wiggle worm as he gets louder and louder, and I can tell he's getting to his meltdown range. I rush into the kitchen to prepare a bottle before he gets any louder and wakes my husband up. I scramble around searching for a clean bottle because - of course - the dishes weren't done last night (I had asked the teenager to do them and I guess he "forgot" again).

Finally, I give up and retreat to the nursery to fetch a clean bottle from the cabinet drawer. I hurry back to the kitchen and turn the faucet on to heat the water while I scoop the formula, rice, and Karo syrup into the bottle. Once the water is ready, I combine it in the bottle and shake viciously, making sure everything is evenly dispensed. I finish just in time to return to the bedroom and liberate the baby from the bassinet holding before he combusts in a fit of pure rage and aggravation, driven by his hunger - it's probably been four hours since he last ate.

I'm holding the baby in my arms and feeding him while simultaneously carrying his blanket and his duckies into the living room where we will no doubt spend the rest of our day. I survey the room as I lay the duckies and the blanket down on the end of the chaise that he loves to sleep on. There are dirty bottles on the coffee table, nestled between used napkins and dinner plates from the night before because I didn't clean them up before I went to bed. The dog is whining from his kennel, ready to be taken out to pee and given his breakfast. He will just have to wait a moment - I have the baby to tend to. The cat is following behind me around the house, trying to help in the only way she knows how. I swear she's my best friend and the second biggest help I get in this house.

The baby has almost finished his bottle, and the teenager finally emerges from his bedroom. I tell him he needs to do the dishes and take the dog out before he starts school at 7:50 A.M. He nods a curt "yeah, okay" and goes about getting dressed for the day. He grabs his cigarettes that he keeps magically acquiring - even though I expressively forbade him from having them - and searches for a lighter to step outside for his morning smoke. I think he'll take the dog out with him, but instead he grabs his phone and walks right past the kennel and out the front door. I sigh in exasperation and finish with the baby, burping him and laying him down for play time on his tummy mat. He wiggles and smiles as I walk away to let the dog out of the kennel and feed him.

The dog is rambunctious, hungry and needing to go outside, but I can't leave the baby in the house to walk him and the dog pulls to hard for me to take the baby out with him. There's freshly washed laundry folded neatly on the couch because I refuse to put away others' clothes - if I wash, dry, and fold, then surely they can put away - but it has sat there for over a week, and I'm tired of looking at it; I'll probably put it away this evening. The dog jumps up on the couch, knocking half the laundry on the floor and laying on top of the other half. I sigh in frustration as I think I'll have to rewash the ones he's laying on because now they smell like dog. As if I didn't have enough laundry to do as there's several loads that have sat in the laundry room for the past few weeks because I haven't had the time to get to it and no one else will do it.

The floors are dirty, and things stick to my feet as I walk through the house. The floors haven't been mopped or vacuumed in probably two months - since the last time that I did it. The teenager finally comes back in, just in time to start his schoolwork. He retreats to his room and shuts the door, hopefully logging onto his classroom to begin his day, but there's no way for me to know. He was sitting at the dining room table until he decided that he'd rather be in his room, and I just really didn't feel like fighting him on it. Pick your battles, I guess.

I have to pee; I rush to the hallway bathroom that the teenager has claimed as his own - even though it's to be shared with the baby and guests - and notice how absolutely filthy it is. He hasn't cleaned it in a few months, not since the last time my husband made him do it, and even then he half-assed it as he does everything else he's asked to do. I pull my email up on my phone and find more notifications that he has zeros on assignments and is failing his classes again. Will he ever learn?

I make breakfast with the few clean dishes there are in a dingy kitchen that hasn't been cleaned in over a month because I should not be the only one that does it. I cleaned the fridge out for the first time since we moved here and doing just that took me over four hours. I feel gross living in this gross house and cooking in the gross kitchen and sleeping in sheets that haven't been changed in over a month and looking through windows that haven't been cleaned ever and pulling back wrinkled curtains and dusty blinds and placing things on dusty furniture and showering in mildewy showers and walking on dirty, grimy, crumby floors.

I'm not a house wife; I work from home. I'm a published author and a professional transcriber, spending anywhere from eight to twelve hours a day behind a computer to do the things that help support my family. I am also a teacher, trying to make sure that the teenager (who has to do virtual school because of this stupid virus that gets a lot more notice than its worth) doesn't fail for the third year in a row. I'm also a new mom, nursing and raising my newborn, keeping up with doctors and making sure that he's developing properly.

I should not have to be master chef, maid service, pet care specialist, mom, teacher, transcriber, author, entrepreneur, taxi driver, secretary to the family, accountant, handy-woman, and I.T. support. I cannot do all of this by myself, and I shouldn't have to. There are two other people in this house perfectly capable. I am a work-from-home mom, not a stay-at-home wife. Can these people please learn the difference?