Yesterday, after making breakfast, I cleaned the kitchen. Straight-away. I wiped down counters, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned out the coffee pot. I lit a candle. The whole thing sparkled. When I was done, and my husband came downstairs, I was tempted to go stand in the kitchen and bask in his shock and approval.
It was a Saturday. Not only had I made a lovely breakfast (for which he'd already thanked me), but I'd cleaned it up as well!
Thankfully, back on the sofa, the absurdity of that hit me.
For better or worse, cooking and cleaning are part of my job. In fact, they're a huge part of my job. Ten years ago, I chose to quit working in an office in Washington DC and to stay home to raise my kids and support my husband's work outside the home. Part of that decision, one that I knowingly and willingly made, is that I do the lion's share of the housework and cooking.
For some strange reason, I have spent the last 10 years resenting this.
I cook all the meals. (woe is me)
I clean all the toilets. (woe is me)
I use a master's degree to fold laundry. (woe is me)
There has been a lot of internal and, to be honest, external strife.
I think part of this is our culture. Somewhere along the way, housewives went from homemakers to stay-at-home-moms, as if there is a delineation or distinction between the two. I spent a lot of time pointing out to my husband that I did my job today because the kids were still alive. The housework and dinner? Oh, those are a bonus for the days I'm feeling generous.
I tried very hard to believe that tripe. Wouldn't it be nice? All I have to do all day is get the kids fed, dressed and off to school. Then, 7 hours later pick them up, feed them a snack and generally oversee homework, activities and the like.
In between there, I get to ride horses, do yoga and maybe (if I'm feeling all generous and with-it) do a few loads of laundry or make some beds.
This has been going on for a long time. I do a fairly good job of keeping up with house, kids and cooking, but I don't do a great job. I don't work hard. I work at a medium-to-low level when it comes to my actual job. The kids get off to school, but we're often hustling and running later. Lunches are packed, often at the last minute. Breakfast has deteriorated to cold cereal, often which isn't even eaten with milk if the kids are being picky. I do a basic series of chores each day which includes laundry, making beds and doing the dishes. I pick the kids up from school and then, like a switch, I become nearly immobile. I flop down on the sofa, laptop or phone in hand, and begin armchair parenting. Calling out snack options, yelling to get homework done, threatening to take away Minecraft if there is anymore fighting.
Don't think I don't do all this calling out in a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt, because I do.
What doesn't get done?
Half the time I don't run errands during the day, which means I either run them at night, with the kids in the afternoon or on the weekends. Grocery shopping should never have to be done on the weekends if I have 7 hours a day, 5 days a week to get it done.
The bathrooms look like truck stops before I clean them.
The vacuum sits silent in the laundry room.
The tiled floors are spot-cleaned.
Dust? It is well-settled.
The car is often low on gas, and I like to wait for my husband to see that on a weekend day so that he'll stand out in the dying heat of summer and fill it up.
What, then, do I do all day?
I do the few chores listed above. I sit on the Internet and shop for clothes I won't wear, pin things to various websites, peruse blogs of women who actually make shit happen and check Facebook incessantly, even though nothing of interest EVER happens on Facebook.
I workout.
I go out for lunch.
I take baths.
I ride horses.
I go to Starbucks.
I read books about writing.
I read self-help books about being happy.
Ooooohhhhh....look at that. It's time to get the kids. How did that happen?
And....that is my day.
So, when I don't feel particularly good about myself, when I am edgy and defensive about what I did all day, I am thinking there is good reason for it. Maybe we don't get to feel good about ourselves if we don't work hard and do our jobs? Maybe that little nagging in the back of my head, the one that says I was a lazy bastard all day, maybe it's right? Maybe it's not low-self-esteem but honest-self-esteem. Maybe when we do less than we are capable of doing, for a long, long time, we feel it. In our bones. Deep down in the marrow of who we are. Maybe that track in our heads that says we're half-assing it is....right.
Doing the dishes is my job. Every day. Every meal. Sometimes I get help with it; sometimes I don't. I should go ahead and teach my kids how to do it, allowing them to learn beside me and help me along. But never, as long as I'm in this job, will it be someone else's responsibility. And I don't get shiny medals or ribbons or patches for doing it. I don't even get thanks. That's how jobs work. You do the job, and the doing the job and self-respect you get from working hard is the reward.
At the end of a day, my house should be clean, my family fed, each person prepared for the next day, food in the pantry and all calm on the Western Front. That is the job.
I'm lucky to have it.
