It's A Mummy's Life published this post on 11 April, 2011...
Do you ever have on-going arguments in your head? Where you progressively get more and more annoyed and worked up with whomsoever it is that is on the receiving end of your vitriol?
I do. I did today. It was my husband and it concerned the on-going contender for 'dullest argument of the year' award - housework. It's just so indescribably boring to argue about cleaning isn't it? But it's just such a constant source of irritation. I work 5 days a week and yet somehow, there is some unwritten rule that says that because I happen to have ovaries I do the majority of the housework and the majority of the childcare. To some extent my exasperation is being driven by the book I am reading at the moment 'Shattered; Modern Motherhood and the Illusion of Equality' by Rebecca Asher. It's an amazing read and a thoroughly well researched piece on modern feminism.
As I've said before I'm not sure if the term feminist is relevant today but Asher's evidence is compelling and I'm willing to bet that any mother who reads this blog would identify with some of the interviews she undertook. I intend to do a full review when I'm finished but so far it's a very good read. Although I see my husband cowering in the corner as he watches the Masters and I'm reading it. Poor sod.
So anyway back to my imaginative argument. All day I had been telling him (in my head) how much I do around the house, how the bathroom doesn't miraculously self-clean, how we don't have a robot who tidies and wipes the kitchen surfaces 55, 000 times a day, neither do we have a full time live-in nanny. No all these duties are carried out by yours truly and most of the time I don't complain, particularly about the childcare bit. I love being with them, but loving being with them and it being assumed I will make sure Tilly's nappy is changed and that they are drinking enough water, have suncream on (as it was hot), have their hats on, are not eating cat poo in the garden, are having lunch and dinner, are getting bathed etc etc are different things altogether.
So this evening when I was changing the bedsheets in our room with Eliza's 'help' ("Mummy, I'll jump on the bed while you cover me with the cover!") him indoors appears and declares that he will do the sheets. When I'd recovered from the shock I gladly started to go downstairs, only to overhear Eliza say,
"Daddy, my Mummy normally does this job."
"Well I'm doing it today."
"But Mummy always does the sheets Daddy. You must do it properly."
Score! I had won the in-my-head-only-argument. There's no denying what she says. Out of the mouth of babes and all that.
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