Who's got it easy?

You don't know how easy you've got it, he says. Damn right, I don't. How easy I've got it? Who's with the boys during the meditation and breathing exercises each morning? Who's fixing their breakfast five mornings a week and getting them dressed while he's shaving and taking his shower and getting ready for his day? And more? Who's spending his day actively in an adult world, doing what he loves, with no pressure to make it to daycare in time to pick them up, get their dinner ready, do the same fucking routine over and over and over again. It's not me that's got it easy enough to be able to say, "Gotta work late tonight. Be home after they're in bed." Not me that's got it easy enough to be able to say, "Going to Petite Riviere this weekend to work on the condos. I've got a lot of stuff to take care of." A lot of stuff to take care of does not translate the same to me. It's not me that's got it easy enough to breathe in the peace and quiet and a break from the every every day the same, the same, the same. Sure maybe it's busy, but it's not the busy of the daily diaper, the daily tantrum, the daily on my fucking hands and knees getting kicked in the head under the high chair, picking up yet one more overturned on purpose bowl of whatever they didn't want anymore of. Yes, I've got it so easy. One week in my world and he'd never say that again. I'd give him that week if I could only figure out how not to feel the mother guilt.