If this was my job, I would quit. I would soooo quit. I would just walk out of that cubicle, slam the door, and give them the old peace sign and never look back. Or I’d go all “Office Space” on them and start beating different machines with baseball bats out in the alley outside, and offer them a wave and a “bye Felicia.”
I don’t get promoted.
I don’t get a check.
I don’t get a “Hey! Nice job on that report, there slugger. Wink wink.”
I get pooped on. Sometimes literally. I get yelled at. I get argued with. I am constantly cleaning up after other people. Nobody respects my space. Sometimes they take my hard work and just tear it up AND THEN LAUGH ABOUT IT like dang heathens.
And then I bring in dinner. Everyone eats it. They complain about it, but they eat it. And then they hand me the dishes like they just expect me to do that too. Again, without a “thank you.” Say what now?
They eat my food from the fridge. Even if I label it. (To be fair, they can’t read yet. But still.) They touch me non-stop. That’s right, even in this day and age. They don’t listen to my ideas and I have some really good ideas.
I don’t get days off. I don’t get paid for all of the over-time. Even when I’m asleep, I’m still on call. And no, I’m not Oprah’s assistant. That would be amazing. I’m a mom. And that’s pretty amazing too, but in a totally less glamorous, more I-haven’t-showered-today kind of way.
If you’re a mom, I’m pretty sure you feel me on this one. Im pretty sure you’re out there nodding your head in solidarity.
I’m not complaining, because I chose this. Because I signed up for this. Because I understand how important this job is, and because I love the people I work for, but geezus Louises. Somebody just appreciate me. Maybe give me a mug or a hug or I dunno something else, preferably something that also ends in an -ug so it would also rhyme.
Maybe just give me a pat on the back. Maybe just recognize that your bathroom is only clean because I cleaned it. And it was disgusting. Making it in the toilet is not that difficult, I promise. I do it multiple times a day. Neither is flushing, or properly using toilet paper. Although I applaud your attempts to save the environment.
Anyways, I’m tired. I’ve tried so hard today. I’ve done so much today. And nobody has told me thank you. And while I am obviously really bummed about it (I am currently in the middle of making dinner and waiting for the water to boil, so excuse me if I ghost in the middle of this.), I keep remembering that I will get my thank you one day.
I will get my bonus check. I will get my giant cake right before leaving time in the break room with the words “Way to go!” scribbled in pink frosting.
And if you’re putting in the work (And if you’re a mom. If you’re reading this. If you love your kids. If you give them your mind, body and most of your sleep — you are undoubtedly putting in the work.), you will too.
And that thank you will look a lot like adults who are kind. It will look a lot like adults who know how to give and how to work hard and how to respect others. It will look a lot like adults who understand the importance of being a good friend and who know how hard it is to make a marriage last.
It will look a lot like adults who are strong enough to leave this house one day and make a name for themselves. It will look a lot like adults with the courage to give it their all.
It will look a lot like adults who still want to come back home and visit me as often as they can. It will look a lot like adults who just breeze through my front door and sit down and start digging in my pantry like they still live in this house.
And if I’m really lucky. If I’m really, really lucky, it will look a lot like adults who have kids of their own who don’t appreciate them either. Who look back and say “Wow, thanks mom. I had no idea what all you did for us, but I totally get it now.”
And I can’t even imagine having a better “thank you” than that.