We have six kids, but I’m also the only one who does all the chores and cooks food for everyone, while my husband plays his PlayStation. Meanwhile, I’m always TOO tired to even confront him.😭
I don’t want to break up the family but also don’t want to live like this. WHAT SHOULD I DO?
If you told me ten years ago that I’d be a mother to six kids and still considering a seventh, I would’ve laughed until I cried. Back then, I was full of energy, passion, and dreams. I wanted a big family, yes, but I also wanted a partner—someone to build with, someone to grow with.
And I thought I had that in Raj.
Raj used to be sweet. The type of guy who’d notice if I was even a little tired and bring me tea with a biscuit balanced on the saucer. He’d rub my back when I was pregnant, run late-night errands, tell me how strong I was. Somewhere between baby #3 and #5, though, that Raj started fading. The PlayStation became his best friend. I became the default parent, the chef, the maid, the nurse, the scheduler, the human pacifier. And now? Now I’m just… exhausted.
And he wants another baby.
“You’re so good with kids,” he said last week while lounging on the couch, controller in hand. “Imagine a little one again—those baby cuddles, the first steps. Let’s just go for it.”
He said it like we were deciding whether to get another throw pillow.
I didn’t even answer. I was too busy cleaning spilled juice from under the fridge and keeping the twins from smearing peanut butter on the walls.
That night, after finally putting the kids to bed (a two-hour war), I sat alone in the kitchen. I didn’t cry. I just sat. I stared at my hands—dry, cracked, overworked. And for the first time, I let a very real question settle in:
Who am I becoming in this life?
I wasn’t angry. Not yet. More like… heartbroken. I didn’t hate Raj. I just didn’t recognize myself anymore. And that scared me more than anything.
The next morning, I did something different. I didn’t cook breakfast. Didn’t do the laundry. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat at the table while the kids ate cereal from the stash I usually kept hidden for emergencies.
Raj finally noticed.
“Everything okay?” he asked, pausing his game for the first time in what felt like weeks.
“I’m tired,” I said, simply.
“Yeah, well, six kids’ll do that,” he joked, like it was something to laugh off.
But I didn’t laugh.
“Raj, I need you to listen. Like really, listen.”
He looked confused but muted the TV.
“I can’t do this alone anymore,” I said. “I’ve been carrying everything. Every meal, every bath, every fight between the kids, every school form. I feel like a single mom in a full house. And you want to add to it?”
“I help—”
“You don’t,” I interrupted, gently but firmly. “Playing with them for ten minutes while I’m cleaning doesn’t count as help. I’ve been holding it together for all of us, and I’m breaking.”
He was quiet for a moment. I could tell he wanted to argue, but something in my face must’ve made him stop.
“I don’t want to break up the family,” I said, “but I also don’t want to lose myself completely. So something has to change. Now.”
That conversation cracked something open.
At first, Raj sulked. He’d never really been asked to step up like that before. But I didn’t let it slide. I didn’t scream or threaten. I stayed calm, and every time he backslid, I reminded him gently but clearly: this is a partnership, not a one-woman show.
It wasn’t easy. The change was slow. But it happened.
He started waking up early to help get the kids ready. He learned how to cook three basic meals. He took the kids out for two hours every Sunday to give me quiet time. And he put the PlayStation in the closet “for a while.”
And the best part? The kids noticed. My oldest, Sara, gave me a drawing of “Mommy sleeping while Daddy makes pancakes.” I cried when I saw it. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen.
As for the seventh kid?
We talked about it again, properly this time. I told him the truth: I love being a mom, but I need to be a person too. That meant no more babies unless we were truly in it together, with shared responsibilities, and if my heart—and body—felt ready. And even then, maybe six was enough.
He agreed.
Not with resentment, but with real understanding. Because now, he saw what I’d been carrying. And I think, for the first time, he understood the weight of it.
It’s been a year since that conversation.
Life isn’t perfect—six kids don’t let anything be “perfect”—but it’s better. Balanced. I smile more now. I started painting again. Raj still messes up the laundry sometimes, and he burns the eggs once in a while, but I don’t care. What matters is that he tries.
We didn’t add a seventh baby. Instead, we added movie nights, weekend hikes, breakfast in bed on my birthday. We added respect back into the mix.
And somewhere along the way, we found each other again.
If you’re reading this and you’re feeling invisible in your own home—please hear this:
You deserve to be seen.
You deserve rest.
You deserve a partner who shows up for you, not just in words, but in action.
Change won’t happen overnight. But if you speak your truth—with honesty, not anger—and stay strong in it, the people who love you will listen. And if they don’t? Then maybe it’s time to ask whether you’re really in a partnership—or just playing a solo game with two names on the scoreboard.
Either way, don’t forget who you are. Not just “Mom.” Not just “wife.” But you.
Thanks for reading. If this story spoke to you, like it and share it—someone out there might really need to hear it today. 💛
