01/11/2026
Anyone else married to the sweetest, most loving, doting man…who becomes completely clueless the second chaos enters the chat?
For context:
I’m the breadwinner. Full-time work. Care-for-everyone-for-a-living energy.
He holds down the house, homeschools the boys, keeps everyone alive (thank God for housekeepers and Instacart). Truly a team effort.
Weekends though?
Those are my sacred recovery days.
I love my job—but caring for humans professionally + personally means by Sunday night I am running on fumes and vibes.
Cue tonight.
6:00 pm. Just home from errands.
Dog is due to have puppies any minute.
Two kids fresh off organic, artisanal ice cream from (10/10, no notes).
And then…
The four-year-old does not make it to the bathroom.
And when I say didn’t make it—
I mean explosive, crime-scene-level p**p.
Walls. Toilet. Pants. Underwear. Legs. Socks. Places p**p should never go.
I’m hollering for help while trying to contain the biohazard.
Husband appears. Assists with initial cleanup.
Then vanishes.
Friends…
This man left me sanitizing a p**p apocalypse alone.
P**p somehow shot up my arm, down my Lulus, and onto my brand new Uggs from Christmas.
I’m spiraling. My inner Type A germaphobe is screaming.
I needed a shower 20 minutes ago.
I need to exfoliate my soul.
And what is my helpful, well-meaning husband doing?
Taking the dogs out.
Doing the dishes.
Which—YES. Helpful. Productive. Gold star behavior.
But also…
FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, READ THE ROOM SIR.
I needed backup.
I needed hazmat-level support.
Instead, my baseboards behind the toilet are now spotless.
Anyone else married to a wonderful man who defaults to “technically helpful but wildly misaligned” during moments of crisis?
Signed,
A raw-skinned, slightly feral, Type A working mama
who loves her husband very much
but may need a warning label for Sundays 😵💫🫠