I hate complaining. I don’t want to be around complainers, and I don’t want to be one myself.
Ugly, wormy little soul that I am, though, sometimes I get in a stew about all the housework I have to do, and how little help I get around here. Sometimes I get so mad at my husband’s cluelessness about housework that I think about going on strike so he can see just how much there is to do around here. I want him to know how tired I get, and how tedious it is, and how seldom I get to really rest. I want him to notice that something needs to be done, and step in and help without my having to ask. Why? Because I am petty. (Here’s the confession part. I’ll bet you thought I was about to complain, didn’t you? Fooled you good!)
You see, I am a woman. Despite the mantra of female empowerment that pervades our culture, being a woman doesn’t mean all the lovely things the women’s magazines would have you believe. I don’t have it all together; I don’t understand our marriage soooo much better than he does, just because I have ovaries; I don’t always have the best intent when I think up reasons why he should behave differently than he does; and my emotional IQ is not higher than his, no matter what the latest “studies” say.
Being a woman in a fallen world sometimes means that I have control issues. I want him to do what I think ought to be done. Sometimes it means I want attention from a guy who doesn’t have any to spare right now. It means I expect my husband to read my mind–or at least the floor–even though he has never shown any ability in mind/floor-reading in our entire 11 years together.
I’ve been angry at my hapless husband lately because I want him to help out without being asked. In my skewed thinking, having to ask is degrading. I don’t like to admit when I’m overwhelmed. I don’t like to ask anybody for anything, lest they realize that I’m not perfect. It’s the way I’ve always been, and it is wrong.
I certainly wouldn’t want to say that every man is like my husband (most are), but this particular man has a job, and “help-meet” is nowhere in that description. My husband has a job! I’ll bet he’d rather not go in sometimes. I’ll bet the strain of supporting 6 people in an economy where people are losing jobs right and left might just distract a guy so much he doesn’t see the noodles drying under the baby’s highchair. I’ll even bet that the stress of having to perform ALL THE STINKING TIME, no napping, might just make a guy think that once he gets home he deserves a couple of hours of peace before bedtime, huh?
In our family, we’ve decided to divide the household labor in the traditional way. He works outside the home and does the yard-work. I do everything else. I even try to provide for a few of our material needs myself, but it is a secondary pursuit, and means very little to our family’s well-being. So when the floors need cleaning, whose job is that? Mine. And the laundry, and the dishes, and the kids, and whatever else I see that needs to be done. And, here’s the hard part to admit, I still can’t do it all. There is too much of it, even though it’s the “only” job I have.
I guess the floors will either wait until I’m ready for them, or I can ask my husband, politely and without that irrational anger, to help me. And I can suck it up if he’s too busy or doesn’t feel like it. Not only is my anger not helpful, it’s not even reasonable. When was the last time I heard him complain that his boss is jumping all over him because I, his wife, didn’t help him finish his last project at work? What? That’s not my job? Well, gosh, when you put it that way…
None of this means that my husband shouldn’t have to sweep a floor or wipe down a high chair every now and then, I suppose. I don’t think that’s just “women’s work”. It is, however, my work. It’s how we’ve arranged our lives, and if the floors need doing, I need to do them. If they don’t get done, at least he can’t fire me! Praise God, the floors can wait!
Husbands are to love their wives as Christ loves the Church. Jesus washed feet, and I’m sure he wouldn’t be above washing dishes. But I’ll let a man speak to men about that. It’s a bit of a conflict of interest for me. I can’t spend my time worrying about what he should be doing for me. I have floors to clean.
{ 8 comments }
My husband never helps… even when I am stressed beyond my limit… makes no sense to me.
And here, I always thought that my ovaries were a second set of brains
Denise, I know it probably feels like you’re wading through a swamp with all the work you do (it’s how I feel, anyway). Just know that you’re not alone, lady! It’s a tough job we moms have cut out for us. Have you tried asking him for help? I know I rarely ask my husband for anything. I just start slamming things around and grumbling because he’s not helping. Which doesn’t help much. LOL
I think some men truly can’t see the mess. I call it “refrigerator blindness”. You know how a man can look in the frig for the mayo and have it sitting right in front of him and STILL not see the stuff? They really aren’t wired to see these things, I think.
Amanda, go ‘way. Like to India or something. We don’t need your kind around here.
I needed this stern talking-to today. Thanks so much. I just found you yesterday and you have already been a blessing to me. Thank you.
Ailsa leaves work, drives to the preschool to pick up KP, drives home, picks up toys, clears off the kitchen counter (Where does all that stuff come from anyway?), plans dinner, spends a few moments to talk with KP, picks up more random stuff…
Scott leaves work, drives home, gives KP a big kiss and hug, gives Ailsa a kiss, disappears into the bathroom for twenty minutes, walks back into the den and sits down on the couch…
The following conversation ensues:
“Unload the dishwasher,” says Ailsa.
“I’m always unloading the dishwasher. Next you’re gonna want me to reload it!” moans Scott.
“I’m always cooking dinner. You wanna do that instead?” asks Ailsa.
“I don’t cook,” says Scott.
Ailsa gives Scott a look that could possibly lead to spontaneous combustion, and Scott begins to unload the dishwasher.
“Why don’t you go downstairs and start a load of clothes while I cook? asks Ailsa.
Scott says, “Don’t I get to sit down and rest for a minute? I’m tired. I’ve been at work all day.”
Ailsa responds, “You got to rest on that forty-five minute drive home. You don’t see me sitting down do you? Did I not work all day as well? Have I not been cleaning since I got home? I haven’t even gotten a chance to spend any quality time with KP!”
“Well the least you could do is say please! I’m tired of you telling me what to do!” shouts Scott as he walks down the stairs.
Ailsa walks over, opens the door to the basement, and yells, “I don’t hear anyone asking me to do things around here. No one says ‘Please cook dinner.’ I do things because they have to be done. If you would do a little more of that yourself I wouldn’t have to tell you what to do all the time!”
Let’s not get started on what happens when things do not get cleaned “good” enough…
Oh, you working moms have a whole different set of problems! I’ve
never seen a man who helps the way common sense says he should. You’re
gone all day, too! Why shouldn’t the laundry be half his to do? But it
never is! It’s one of the reasons I’m not working. I watched my mom do
everything when I was growing up and concluded that there was no hope
of sharing the workload fairly. My dad didn’t cook, clean, do
childcare, or anything else. Feminism might have gotten women into the
workplace, but it failed to change husbands. I just don’t want to live
that way.
Good points. I saw your name on another blog (theothermccain I think) and linked over here.
Your insight rings sadly true about financial redistribution. We’re ALL rich if you can read this. We are working very high up Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs if we’re able to access the internet (generalization, I know). As you said “I”m eating well, but he’s eating better…”
As it comes to making house / home, it will take a lot more than a social phenomenon like feminism to change what men really care about. I help at plenty of things around the house because they are important to my wife, but that doesn’t mean they are important to me. too often friction in marriages are caused by the misunderstanding that just because something is important to me doesn’t make it important to you. And if it’s not important to you, it doesn’t mean you don’t love me”.
This goes both ways, of course.
Anyone familiar with “The Five Love Languages?”
So true, Tom! I can’t make my husband understand why the laundry needs to be put away TODAY. It’s just the way it is. Sigh. He can’t make me understand a few things about his job, either. That’s why he’s doing it, and I’m not!