Seems that going on a ‘Mom Strike’ is all the rage recently. I’ve seen several people in my social media newsfeed touting their intentions to abandon their normal responsibilities and show those families of theirs just exactly what it is they do around there (and, presumably, garner some appreciation for those tasks in the process.) And you know what I think about that?

I think that is fantastic.

Moms everywhere work their butts off, both inside and outside the home, to make sure the ships they are steering stay on course and everything runs smoothly. And often, they do all this work with little to no appreciation in return.

So strike away, moms! I think what you’re doing is wonderful, and I hope to God the people you provide with love, comfort, and security wake up and realize just how essential you are to their everyday well-being. And that they reward you in kind.

But I won’t be joining you. And here’s why.

I am already doing the bare minimum when it comes to parenting. Every day is practically a ‘Mom Strike’ for me. And I seriously worry that if I do, in fact, take it further and go on an all-out strike, my kids will start to wonder who this middle-aged roommate of theirs is and what she has done with the so-called mom who used to shuffle around the house, yelling commands to pick up this and organize that before giving up and plopping herself on the couch with a glass of wine and a Netflix Original to fall asleep to halfway through the opening credits.

I can’t tell you the last time my kids had a solid vegetable. I mean, sure, they eat a carrot or a tomato here and there, but really, I’m not sure any of them has tasted something green in the better part of a month.

As for clean clothes? Those are usually hastily tossed in the washing machine when someone announces he’s been wearing the same pants for two days straight and has taken to turning his underwear inside out in a last-ditch effort to avoid butt rot.

And don’t even get me started on housekeeping. Our dog doubles as a vacuum and a broom, but he’s getting up there in age and his knack for sniffing out dropped foodstuffs has become questionable, so you can find crumbs in just about any nook and cranny of this pigsty we call a home.

Don’t get me wrong. I do manage to bathe them a few times per week, throw something in a lunchbox to ensure they don’t starve to death at school, check their backpacks for important documents and assignments every so often, and read a book or chat with them about their days every night. But I’m not winning any awards for Parent of the Year over here. That’s for damn sure.

The reality is, I’m tired. I work outside the home, and when I get back after a day there, I have more work to do here for my second job. Add to that the responsibility of caring for not one, but THREE little humans in addition to myself? We’re barely getting by here, people.

So while my sisters from other misters — who clearly have their shit together far better than I do and whom I admire more than words can convey — are declaring their right to fight for a little acknowledgment through a ‘Mom Strike’ (Get it, girls!), I’ll just be over here doing what I always do.

Which is just barely enough to keep Child Protective Services from knocking down my door.