I Hate Being The Momager, But I Cannot Help Myself

Let me begin by stating, I am far from perfect. I am not a neat person. I am pretty careless about putting my things back in their proper place or organization in general. I procrastinate in basically every aspect of life. I don’t exercise as much or eat as well as I should, and I know this. I curse a lot and overspend. I am horrible at taking phone messages.

I don’t really care if my underwear is folded or the interior of my purse makes sense. But if there is one stray book on the mudroom bench, one snack wrapper left out, or one rogue toy still in the living room at the end of the day, I turn into a territorial Tasmanian devil. Am I the only one who notices these things?

What is the modern term for the main household manager, event planner, and social-media marketer of the family? Who’s grabbing sunscreen for outdoor activities, planned in the name of entertainment, and water for long-ish car rides? Reminding people with little bladders to use the bathroom before putting on shoes and piling into the car?

Mom + manager = momager.

Here I sit, up on my high horse named Suburban Quasi-White Privileged (Upper?) Middle-Class Mom of Two. Please bend an ear–or, well, eyes I guess–and hear me out about the role I’ve willingly taken on that I also despise. 

Recently I asked my adoring husband not once, not twice, but three (!) times to clip one of our two kids’ fingernails. Not even both kids’, just the one who’s very, very antsy when I try to clip them. He seems to behave better when his beloved father is the one restraining him and wielding the clippers. When I say, “Come here,” he actually runs away from me. These nails were guitarist-long. Yes, I could have done it myself well before those three days passed, but honestly? I’m sick and tired of always feeling like I’m the one who notices and the one who does it.

And sometimes, I admit it, I place more value on avoidance or delegation of an unpleasant task than I do on demanding straight-up obedience and respect, although it does annoy me that this kid’s instinct is to do the exact opposite of what I say.

I’m only human. For that matter, so is he.

And in my spouse’s defense, he has been super-duper busy with work, and I’m with the kids significantly more than he is. I’m very detail-oriented (“anal” could be said), especially when it comes to our children. I don’t know if it’s something I learned from my parents or something ingrained in my personality, but I will nitpick until they get defensive, and then I try to rein it in.

I don’t like being the one who remembers, who delegates, who makes the lists and goes to the stores.

I actually hate all that. Being the one who is constantly repeating herself because NO ONE LISTENS the first time and then receives dirty looks for YELLING. The one who manages people who don’t like or want to be managed. But I also cannot stand these things not getting done or done to my stupid, self-determined degree of satisfaction.

I feel like I’m the one reminding that kid to eat over his plate because when he doesn’t, he gets his clothes dirty (more laundry) and the floor dirty (more crumbs to have to sweep up). And somehow he ends up getting his hair dirty, don’t even ask. TBH, I won’t necessarily break out our broom, but I do know exactly how many days it is until our monthly cleaning service is scheduled and therefore how many days I will see the dirty floor. I frequently look at the floor when I walk, largely because I’ve suffered 10 ankle sprains and that’s the number of times it takes for me to learn to look where I walk.

This is not to say I remember or even think of everything around here.

Softener-salt levels, the loose towel rack in the kids’ bathroom, regular oil changes for our cars. When to leave to arrive at a destination on time (i.e., early). I haven’t paid a utility bill since, well, 2004. These things are never on my radar, and I am VERY appreciative they are on my husband’s. Lest you think I’m impossible to live with, he hasn’t moved out yet. 

Couldn’t I just abdicate my role as the eternal taskmaster, the scheduler, and the enforcer? Do I have to escalate things to the point of nagging? Couldn’t I just be fine with things not being addressed right away? No. No, I can’t live like that. Call me a control freak or blame my Type-A personality. I am highly irritated by imperfection. With my family, that is.

What are my kids learning from this?

To be self-conscious about their appearance and hygiene? To run when they see me coming at them with a pinky finger aimed at an ear? That I want them to be better than their predecessors in all ways? That because they are my masterpiece, I want the world to see the best version of them? That I’m trying to raise responsible adults who remember to turn off lights when they leave a room? 

I’d love to wrap up this tirade with some productive advice, but I just don’t have much to offer. Yes, I would probably benefit from a dash of therapy. Who wouldn’t? For now, it’s therapeutic to write this down, to try to see things from someone else’s perspective, and to tell myself not to sweat the small stuff. And this momager can take a nap, soak in a bath, and take a restorative mini-vacation from this exhausting work every now and then. 

Disclaimer: After extensive discussion, this is not one my husband’s favorite pieces I’ve ever written. But he has yet to tell me what his favorite pieces are.