When my husband, John, and I were newly married, we bought a chihuahua and named him Prancer, as he looked like a reindeer.

How I loved him! He had a wardrobe to rival mine, a custom-made house indoors (for fear he'd get a chill), was hand-fed chicken, and graced our holiday cards. Prancer, I mean, not John.

Then I got pregnant. A friend with a daschund and a toddler warned, "When the baby comes, you won't care about the dog anymore." I said that was crazy talk.

By the time our son was six months old, I had given Prancer to my mother. "He deserves someone who can still dote on him," I reasoned. My mom delighted in spoiling him; I more or less forgot he existed.

Years later, John and I have three kids. I wonder why nobody gave me this head's up: "When you're half dead keeping three humans happy, you won't care about your husband anymore."

Yes, I just compared my husband to a dog. But stay with me here.

I've come to realize I'm a crappy wife.

I put John last, pretty much all the time. And it's not like he's a bad guy — far from it. He does the laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, makes the kids' lunches, even braids my daughter's hair. He often compliments me, and regularly asks if we can go away, alone, for a weekend, or at least out to lunch.

I tell him I have no time for leisurely lunches, let alone two entire days away. I can't be bothered to figure out who is going to take care of our kids, pack, unpack, then scramble getting ready for Monday morning.

At Christmas, I blow an insane amount on the kids, then someone will ask "What did you get John?" Oh, yeah. What I wind up grabbing at the last minute is usually as personal as if I'd be shopping for his boss.

I stay up late, nearly every night, and creep into bed after he's long asleep. The next morning, I'm up and at 'em before he can roll over and give me a hug.

I've spoken this sentence to John. "Let me be clear: If I have to choose between you or one of the kids, you will lose every time. Do you have a problem with that?"

Why am I such a biatch? Here's my excuse: I'm exhausted, mentally and physically.

For most of the last 10 years, I've been the breadwinner. I worked long hours commuting into Manhattan full-time. Now, John has a job, but I still commute, and also work from home trying to keep us ahead of the bills.

My older son is in college, and I will save him from student loans or die trying. My younger son has some special needs, and keeping him on track is a full-time job. My daughter, like any 11-year-old girl, wants her mom to listen, to watch, to help. The clock is ticking on her innocence, and I dare not miss a second of what's left of it.

I am tired, and I am worried. Worried there won't be enough. Enough money, enough luck, enough time, enough of me. John's a great dad, but I play a singular role in each of my kid's lives. And as they've grown, the urgency to get it right screams at me, day and night.

The ship is going down, and I've only got three life jackets. Who am I going to give them to? John, you learned to swim a long time ago, right?

You've said you feel like a second-class citizen in our family, and for that, I am sorry. You deserve better than me, you do. I hope that on some level, you know that the reason why I am the way I am has nothing to do with you. I love you, believe it or not.

When the kids are all off enjoying their successful, happy lives, and the two of us are left looking at each other, please, please, ask me to lunch.

It'll be my treat.

NEXT: My Husband Is the Perfect Dad — And It Almost Killed Our Marriage »

More From Redbook:

• I'm 33, Single, and Have Never Been Happier

• Why I Put My Children on Leashes

• This Woman Was Almost Killed by Breastfeeding

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io