The price of enjoyment.

I had an enjoyable evening out with Hubs and the boys, met up with GGYY for a bit of shop/talk/eat/drink and it was a nice respite from the usual droning domestic routine.

The brightly lit shops bustling with the temporal joy of retail therapy, the gorgeous merchandise begging to be fondled and brought home, the excited shrieks I unknowing let out upon finding something so perfect for myself. I finally found out my Uniqlo size – Large for bottoms. I don’t need an XL! Oh love, oh joy!

The air was so fresh, so new. I wasn’t confined in a lousy sunless 3-room flat anymore. I felt free, I was happy. I was out of the repetitive daily cycle!

Just as I was thinking that I should allow myself to get out at least once a week, I got home and was reminded by the 101 things that should have been done but wasn’t because I wasn’t home.

The stress descended upon me again – a heavy feeling of being busy beyond description. Burdened, even.

I took off the Aldo wedges I had been wearing so proudly, and changed out of the beautiful clothes that had made me feel so carefree. Once again, I was barefoot and clothed in my domestic attire. Work began immediately once the “uniform” had been donned.

I pumped my breasts so Joshua can have breastmilk. I packed away what I had stored from earlier today, and put in what I had just reaped from my boobs. I cleaned Joshua up and tucked him into bed with the new routine that I had to rack my brains over for the whole week. Then I washed up the pump parts, changed the sterilising fluid, and soaked the clean parts in it.

It felt almost sad to be home again. To be doing this again after only 3 hours of being freed from it. Homes are meant to be a place of relaxation, away from stressful work and the demands of society. But here I am: working at home, out of home, day and night; until my hands are coarse, my cuticles dry and peeling, my back aches and my head hurts. Without even a chance to go for a decent manicure without worring about the 101 things that are waiting to be done. All this work for the monthly remuneration of… not a single cent.

Sometimes I really wonder why I decided to have kids. And why I still want more children despite feeling like this almost all the time. The joys don’t come as often, nor as easily, as what something store-bought would bring.

The stupidity of maternal instincts.

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