Working hard

At the end of most days, I am absolutely whipped. My body is sore and all I want to do is sit down on the couch and watch TV. I'm tired of being needed. This is nothing new--I've heard parents, mostly mothers but that's who I tend to talk to or read, say similar things.

I think I complain a lot. I hope I don't whine--one of my kids has been whining pretty much non-stop through the past couple days because of teething pain--and I seriously can not stand whining. It's like something scrape, scrape, scraping away at a tender, irritated spot. Constant. Low-frequency. Argh.

I don't mean to complain--I feel grateful for the chance to stay home with my kids and spend the days with them. I'm glad my husband works and can support our family so that rather than go into an office, I can be with my babies, watch them grow, help them learn. To me it doesn't feel like a complaint; I'm not asking anyone to solve a problem for me. I just need to say it out loud.

"This is so hard."

Raising twins is hard ass work. What do I compare it to? And really, how does "hard work" get defined? Who gets to define it?

My husband is one of the hardest working people I know. He rarely stops. He works hard at the office and is very conscientious about taking time off. He makes sure to put in the right amount of hours, even though no one is looking over his shoulder questioning him. He fixes things around the house--especially now that we're in a new house with an ever-growing list of broken things. He'll work on a project hours in a row without stopping or complaining, go to sleep for the night and then go to the office where he works all day. Then he comes home and picks up right where he left off, working until it's done. He also cooks and cleans. The man does a lot.

I take lots of breaks. Even when I'm not pregnant, I work in fits and starts. Sitting down, zoning out by scrolling through my phone. I'll start a project and then walk away, pick up something else, watch a TV show, write a letter. I was the same when I worked 9-5; I'd beat myself up about being lazy, not getting enough done in a day--and then the next week I'd hit my stride and work without noticing the time passing, feeling the ideas flow and producing work I was proud of. After years as a student and then years as an employee I was finally starting to just own it. Accept it. This is how I work. My work is good. I work hard. Not all the time, but a lot of the time. It's o.k.

And that's the thing. No one has ever told me I wasn't working hard enough. I told myself that. The voice in my head that almost never shuts up would (and still does) constantly kick my ass, shaming me for not doing more.

"You shouldn't sit down and watch TV. There are a million other more worth-while things you should be doing."

"When are you actually going to sit down and write something?"

"If you spent 15 minutes a day picking up around the house, the place would not be such a mess and you'd like it more."

"You need to start that project NOW."


We moved into a new house three weeks ago. My husband has been working quite literally around the clock to get us moved. He's the kind of guy who likes to do things on his own rather than ask for help or wait around for someone else to show up. Actually, I'm that kind of guy too. This is probably why God and the Universe are sending us two sets of twins a year apart--to bash us over our collective heads until we bow down and admit that we need help. We talk about it but I can't say we've made much progress yet.

So in these three weeks, he's been moving, cleaning, fixing, making trips to Home Depot, finding tenants for the old house. I've been taking care of babies. Not quite around the clock but pretty damn close. We talked about it in the beginning and I agreed that my main contribution to this move would be childcare because I'm not lifting much these days and because someone needs to watch the kiddos. The reality of it has been completely draining. I wake up with them, I spend all day with them, I put them to bed. By the end of the day I am just toast. Throughout the day I make plans of what I will do in the evening--work on a project so I can earn some money, put things away in our new bedroom so we can eventually sleep in it, write a thank-you note. I cook dinner and clean up afterwards. I do some laundry. And then it is over. Couch time. Dead time.

But in that dead time that voice has been kicking my ass. Telling me I'm not working hard enough. I should be doing more. My husband worked in the office all day and he's out back fixing the water heater--what am I doing?

Even though many of my friends tell me:

"What you're doing is hard. So hard."

My parents tell me:

"You guys need to find childcare. You need help."

I tell me:

"You are doing a lot. You need to rest. You need to take care of those babies inside and help them stay in as long as they can."

It hasn't been enough. I haven't felt like enough. Even as I've sat aching and drained, patience gone, mind fuzzy. Even as I've felt the other voice inside me, the one that's kept me so healthy these past thirteen years since getting a liver transplant, that voice telling me:

"Rest. You need rest. You are pushing too hard. Enough."

I haven't been listening. I got sick last weekend and I was so sad and mad. I hardly ever get sick, despite being immunosuppressed. I know how to take care of myself. True, it didn't help having two little people coughing directly into my face and rubbing snot in my mouth. I've generally avoided those things in the past order to keep myself healthy. And because those things are gross. But I also felt myself getting run down and I didn't rest enough because it didn't feel okay to do. I realized I was waiting for my husband to tell me I was doing enough, that we were even.

Last week it occurred to me that I get to define hard work for myself and rest when I need to. I use outside measuring sticks--either people telling me I'm working too hard or observing people working harder than I am and feeling like I come up short. This is decidedly bullshit and needs to stop.

So I'm working on it. I'm off to sit on the couch, feeling pretty damn accomplished for getting these words on a page after taking care of two teething babies all day.