The Motherload

Last week, we ran out of propane. No propane means no heat, no hot water, no gas stove. And it wasn’t the first time it’s happened. More like the second or third. [In my defense, that’s over a 12-year period and it’s not even winter yet, so it’s not THAT bad.] I’d like to blame the propane company, or my husband, but I can’t because it was my fault. Why, you ask? Because, like everything else, having heat and hot water falls under my purview. Just like having food in the fridge and gifts under the Christmas tree. It’s just part of the motherload.

As a wordsmith, I know motherload isn’t a real word. It’s not in the dictionary (mother lode is, for those who are wondering), but it’s a colloquialism that is understood by anyone parenting at least one child and holding down a job and/or household at the same time.

For those who still don’t get it, let me break it down for you, with a little help from Merriam-Webster: A mother is a female parent — also, shorthand for motherfucker, which I think is hysterical and rather befitting. (The badass part must be inferred); Load is defined as a large quantity, or a burdensome or laborious responsibility/something that weighs down the mind or spirits. When you put the two words together, like I have, you get motherload: a female parent who carries a large, burdensome responsibility that often weighs on her mentally and emotionally, as well as physically. Damn, I feel seen with this word!

Unless you have one of those rare partnerships where everything — and I mean EVERYTHING — is truly split 50/50, you know the motherload is real. No matter what Merriam-Websters says.

Mothering is hard AF. No matter if you’re a working mom, stay-at-home mom, married mom, and definitely if you’re a single mom. We all share in the motherload. We are responsible for making sure that everyone always has everything they need, even when they don’t realize it. We’re responsible for making sure there’s always toilet paper in the house (and that it’s replaced, since apparently everyone else must use their shirttail or hand when the roll runs out!), milk in the fridge, and yes, propane in the tank. We’re responsible for making sure all the school forms are signed, the bills are paid on time, and no one’s birthday is missed — not even distant nieces and nephews. We manage the family calendar, the doctor’s appointments, holidays celebrations, and date night plans. We’re on top of knowing when the kids outgrow their shoes, the water filters need to be replaced, the insurance policies updated, and the passport renewed. It’s a lot, and it often goes unnoticed and unappreciated, which sucks.

I don’t want it to sound like I wait on my family hand and foot. My husband and sons do help around the house to some extent. The boys have been responsible for making their beds and cleaning their rooms since they were four years old (big boy beds = big boy jobs) and doing their own laundry since they were 12 (one word: puberty). My husband, who does help with the laundry occasionally, is most often the one to make our bed in the morning, since I’m usually out before him. But his biggest contribution, other than being the main provider for our family (my part-time freelance writing gigs don’t exactly pay the big bills, like the mortgage or college tuition), is being our son’s Uber driver to and from school/practice and handling all our assigned concession stand shifts during the high school football and basketball seasons (or as I call it, my personal hell). They also all chip in with loading (albeit incorrectly) and unloading the dishwasher, taking out the trash (although, remembering to replace the liner is apparently a totally different ask), retrieving the mail and Amazon deliveries from outside (which can be problematic when I overspend or want to surprise one of them), and replacing burnt out light bulbs (after I’ve pointed them out, of course). I appreciate it, and them. I really do. But it still doesn’t compare.

I think what makes the motherload feel so heavy isn’t the plethora of tasks that need to get done or even the inordinate amount of time it takes to do it all; It’s remembering it all. The mental space required is overwhelming and exhausting. And here’s the kicker: No matter how organized I think I am, something eventually slips through the cracks (like remembering to check the propane level). I’m human and allowed to make mistakes, so I’m giving myself the grace and space to f*ck up every now and again — without guilt and without shame. After all, it won’t be the last time.

-LJDT