You say your rotten crotchfruit are driving you insane now that you actually have to spend many hours a day with them? Well, I spent seven years 24/7/365 with one or two tiny humans. When life returns to normal and you sigh with relief as you drop the little monsters off at daycare, don't ever again use the phrase "working moms," as if that's harder than either being a stay-at-home mom or a daycare worker.
You tired of all that jarred pasta sauce and canned soup? Well, I made pot roast and set up dough for fresh, yeast-leavened rolls for dinner before I left for my essential "work." And all the flour you panic-bought when you hadn't made so much as a boxed cake mix in more than a decade? I could make a sourdough starter from scratch for all the fresh bread anyone could want.
You think you need a face mask to do your grocery shopping? I can reach into my fabric stash and sew up three for you—one to wear, one for a spare, and one to share—so that your dumb, useless ass doesn't waste actual PPE that medical professionals need.
You're lonely seeing only your own family? Well, I spent 16 years with just my kids and husband, and nine months of "a real job" has me feeling overdone and wishing I were back home like the rest of you complainers.
All that "women's work" that society has denigrated for decades—thank you Betty Fucking Friedan—is suddenly quite valuable. Remember that when this pandemic ends.
