Essay on if Mother went on strike in Marathi
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Maybe it was the moment I discovered my 6 year-old son smashing a Pop Tart into the seat of my car. Or when my 15 year-old daughter sniffed at the contents of our refrigerator and said, “How come you never buy anything good to eat?” It might even have been when my husband asked, “Can you possibly straighten up the house before I get home from work?”
I don’t know. I really can’t pinpoint the specific moment. But, whenever it was, that moment came and left me wanting to resign as wife and mother.
I don’t have a bad family, just a clueless one. My husband is a full-time software engineer. I’m a full-time freelance writer with an office in the house, which frees me of nasty commuter traffic and pantyhose. My three children, ages 6 to 16, do well in school and willingly complete chores – if I remind them. I have little to complain about, but for this one shriekingly obvious thing: Being a good wife and mother means that I’m like the air my family breathes. They’d only notice the things I do if I stopped.
Every morning, I hit the ground galloping when my alarm clock chirps me out of bed at 5:45 a.m. I make breakfast, start the laundry, clear the dishwasher and then, after everyone eats, I load it again. I contemplate dinner and pull things out of the freezer, compare calendars with my husband, and hunt down missing shoes and jackets. Finally I wipe the counters, sweep the floor, change laundry loads, and wave everyone off – all in the first hour of the day.
Where’s that Fairy Godmother when I need her?
Clearly, she’s on the lam. I decide it’s time to break out my own magic wand.
“I’m going on strike,” I announce to my family over dinner.
My husband, Dan, looks up from his plate of spaghetti. “What does that mean, exactly?”
I ad lib, warming to my cause. “There will be no more washerwoman, cook or cleaner in this house. For the next 7 days, I’ll drive you kids to school and back, and I’ll be here if somebody needs an ambulance, but otherwise everyone’s on their own.”
Dan sighs. “Oh, great. More fun for me.”
The children are nonchalant. Blaise, my 16 year-old son, even grins. “You mean you’re not going to ask us to do any chores at all, Mom?”
“That’s right,” I say.
“Cool,” he says. “Frankly, I don’t see the down side. I mean, it’s not like we can’t take care of ourselves.”
The gauntlet is thrown.
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