Two months after my son was born, hair in a knot, eye bags melting into my cheeks, and constant fear on level red, I hired a babysitter. Her name is Maria, I knew her from before, she’d taken care of a friend’s kids, nevertheless, the first few times I left the house for an hour and then two, I cried from separation anxiety. Eventually, she became the person who I turned to when he has a weird rash, didn’t sleep on time, had a nightmare, refused to wash his hair, got his first tooth, took his first step.

And now she’s leaving.

I barely use her anymore, but the comfort of knowing that the woman who spent the most important years of my life by my side was just a phone call away, was priceless.

We’re a modern, nuclear family, mom, dad, kid, we don’t have grandparents that live next door, cook our meals, impose or babysit at the sound of a bell. Even though I wouldn’t have it any other way, I’ve had plenty moments when I resented that, and found solace in Maria.

But now she’s leaving. Though I’m not as scared as I was when she first came, my son is no longer a newborn and killing him by mistake is no longer a possibility, showers and hairbrushes are readily available, and I’ve grasped the fact that going to bed early will make 6am risings easier, I’m petrified at the thought of having no help when I most need it.

The people we choose to help raise our kids become a strange kind of family, one that we choose, one that we pay, one that can disappear at any moment, no questions asked. Maria came only three times a week for two-and-a-half years, much of what she did drove me crazy, but the thought of finding a replacement seems equal to just being alone. Will I hear him laugh as he does when she makes her noises and faces? Will he run and hug the next one, drag her by her finger to his play area, ask her to sing the songs only they know? I know he probably will. But I’ll always be crippled by the lack of my pillar, its knowledge, its strength, its balance, its presence. It was family.

Dear Universe,

I’m writing to inform you that I quit. I am no longer interested in washing dishes, doing laundry, cleaning up toys, scrubbing milk from the couch, and cooking as my primary source of employment. The above tasks bring little fulfilment in the intellectual department, I do not feel that I’m growing as an individual.

The fact that the laundry is never fully done, that there is always another dish hidden in some corner of the house, and that there are miniature metal cars hiding in places where I tend to crash my sore feet or backside, does not only make me a stagnant individual, but a frustrated, stagnant one.

I am no longer willing to smile while I scrub, no longer willing to be ridden by guilt every time I lose it and raise my voice at my son, no longer able to read all the articles about being a good mom that scream at me from my phone every day. There are days when all I want is my mommy.

I want to travel, I want to sleep, I want to read, I want to write, I want to drink fine wine, I want to wear clothes that don’t scream soccer mom, I want to feel comfortable in heels again. I want to buy new mascara. Mine is dry.

So here it is, my letter of resignation. I need another job. But one that will not involve hiring expensive household help, and will let me be with my son all day, he’s the most important thing in my life. Thanks in advance.