They say revenge is best served cold, but mine came with a side of baby spit-up and toddler tantrums. My husband, Mark, thought I “did nothing all day.” He actually had the audacity to say those words out loud. So, I decided to let him experience the “relaxing” day at home he believed I enjoyed. I vanished for twelve hours, leaving him with our two kids. What happened next was not what he expected.
The Morning Madness
At 5:30 a.m., most people are deep in sleep. But not me.
My eight-month-old daughter, Lily, acted as my personal alarm clock, ensuring my day started before the sun even had a chance to stretch. Her tiny cries filled the room, demanding attention. Half-asleep, I stumbled out of bed, changed her diaper, and prepared her bottle.
As I settled her into the bouncer, I barely had a moment to breathe before my four-year-old son, Noah, appeared in the kitchen, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Chocolate chip pancakes?” he mumbled hopefully.
“Not today, buddy,” I said, sliding a bowl of oatmeal with banana slices in front of him. “How about we save those for the weekend?”
Noah pouted but eventually accepted the compromise. Meanwhile, I balanced Lily on my hip and unloaded the dishwasher with my free hand.
This wasn’t just a morning routine; it was a high-stakes circus act.
Mark’s Blind Spot
By the time Mark finally emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered and crisp in his button-down shirt, I had already been in survival mode for an hour. He grabbed his coffee, gave a quick, distracted peck on my cheek, and strolled out the door by 7 a.m., completely unaware of the battlefield I was left to manage.
The worst part? He never acknowledged any of it. He thought my day consisted of playdates and Netflix.
“Must be nice to stay in pajamas and hang out with the kids all day,” he’d say with a smirk while lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone.
When I asked for help? The response was always the same.
“I already worked today. You don’t see me asking you to take over my job.”
Oh, but the final straw came one night when I collapsed onto the couch after an exhausting day. Mark glanced over at me, his brows furrowing.
“You’re always so tired lately… from what?”
Oh.
Oh, really?
That’s when I knew. It was time for a wake-up call.
The Plan
I waited a whole week. Never argued. Never complained. I just smiled, kept doing everything as usual, and quietly plotted my escape.
Then, on Sunday night, I handed Mark a small sticky note with a date circled in bold red marker.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your day off,” I said sweetly. “You keep saying I have it easy. So, next Saturday, it’s all yours.”
Mark grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Finally! Thank you. I could use a day to just relax and watch the game.”
He thought I was gifting him a break.
Oh, Mark. Sweet, clueless Mark.
The Great Escape
On Saturday morning, I woke up early, packed my bag, and kissed my kids goodbye.
“They’re all yours,” I whispered to a half-asleep Mark.
“Wait, what?” he mumbled, blinking.
Then, Lily’s whimpers turned into full-blown cries.
“I’m off for the day!” I called out cheerfully, walking out the door.
I didn’t look back.
While Mark was juggling diapers and meltdowns, I spent my day at a luxury spa.
A full-body massage. Manicure. Facial. A peaceful lunch I didn’t have to share. A nap in a lounge chair by the pool. Not a single “Mommy, I need…” anywhere in sight.
Meanwhile, Mark had to survive parenthood.
- 10:00 a.m. – Get Noah to soccer practice.
- 11:30 a.m. – Feed both kids.
- 12:30 p.m. – Naptime for Lily (good luck with that!).
- 2:00 p.m. – Grocery pickup.
- 3:00 p.m. – Three loads of laundry.
- 4:00 p.m. – Entertain both kids until dinner.
- 5:30 p.m. – Survive bath time and bedtime routine.
I didn’t check my phone for four blissful hours. When I finally did, the messages were hilarious:
9:15 a.m. – “Where are Noah’s soccer cleats??”
10:32 a.m. – “Lily won’t stop crying. What does this cry mean?!”
11:47 a.m. – “They won’t eat the food you made. HELP.”
1:03 p.m. – “The baby won’t nap. I’m losing my mind.”
2:26 p.m. – “Forgot grocery pickup. Do we need diapers?!”
3:40 p.m. – “When are you coming home?”
4:15 p.m. – “Seriously. Please.”
5:38 p.m. – “I’m sorry about what I said before.”
By dinnertime, his texts were just a string of desperate emojis.
I didn’t answer.
The Aftermath
When I finally strolled in at 7:30 p.m., the house looked like a battlefield.
Toys everywhere. Food splattered on the walls. A diaper sat on the coffee table, forgotten. And Mark? He was sitting in the middle of the chaos, holding a half-asleep Noah. His shirt was stained with spit-up, his hair a mess, his face exhausted.
I set my purse down and smiled.
“So,” I asked, “how was your day off?”
Mark didn’t even argue. He just sighed, his voice defeated.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I had no idea. No idea at all.”
He looked at me, eyes full of guilt. “How do you do this every day?”
“Years of practice,” I said. “And no choice but to figure it out.”
“I swear,” Mark continued, “I’ll never say your job isn’t real work again.”
The next morning? He woke up with the kids.
He made breakfast while I drank my coffee—hot.
He even started a load of laundry before work.
And every time someone joked about me “not working,” Mark shut it down real fast.
“Trust me,” he’d say, “she works harder than anyone I know.”
I never had to raise my voice. Never had to argue. I just handed him the reins and let reality do the rest.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering—yes, I’ve booked another “day off.”
This time? Mark suggested it.
