Unapologetic

When it comes to being a woman, there are a few things that I’m never going to apologize for. Believe me, I say “I’m sorry” more times a day than is healthy but there are just some things that are never going to change so it seems counterproductive to apologize for them.

I will not apologize for:

1. Being unwilling to commit to a car pool. I don’t want to drive car pool to a child’s extracurricular activity because it’s extra—meaning that there will be days when I simply don’t feel like fighting my kid about the need to earn a merit badge or practice hitting a ball. If they don’t want to go, I’m okay with it and I don’t want to be committed to take some other person’s kid anyway.

2. Locking the bathroom door. Granted the act of giving birth to a baby abolishes all previously conceived notions of modesty or privacy, but I don’t think it’s much to ask that I get the bathroom to myself. And I will stoop to pretending I’m not there when little fingers waggle under the door, even when they cry and say, “I know you’re in there, Mom!”

3. Not getting up to clean even though my husband is on a cleaning rampage. It never fails that the one night I get home from work and I don’t start picking up backpacks and loading the dishwasher and vacuuming up the after school snack, my husband does. He walks around the house with an annoyed look on his face, a dishcloth slung over his shoulder and a squirt bottle of Windex in his hand. And I know he wants me to feel guilty, get up and pitch in but I’m not going to. I will be kind enough to lift my feet when he tries to vacuum the rug under them.

4. Sneaking upstairs before bedtime. There are nights when I can’t handle tucking the kids into bed. The reasons vary, but it usually boils down to the fact that I want to lay in bed and read early enough that I’m not too tired to remember what I just read. I figure my husband can take a break from fantasy football at least one night a week to handle good night kisses.

5. Serving finger foods for dinner. I’m absolutely convinced that my family has no idea the stress dinner causes me. I don’t get stressed preparing dinner, I get stressed trying to come up with an idea for dinner every single night. I’m not that creative—believe me. Since my family is never any help with ideas, I have been known slice bread and cheese and drop olives and pickles on a plate and call it dinner. They hate it, but it works for me.

What about you? I have a feeling you can add to my list. I’d love to hear it.