The Housework Trap
My husband and I were waiting to board a plane yesterday when I said, “I think I have figured out the root of our problems, do you want to know what it is?”
“Do we have time for this, they are boarding strollers and car seats,” he said.
“The essential problem with our relationship is that your mother never taught you how to clean a kitchen properly. You do a crappy job and then say, “Well that’s as good as I can do” and walk away. But the real issue is that when you were a kid – a boy kid – your mom never taught you how to actually clean the kitchen.”
His face reads, “Oh no.”
“You fell in love with a feminist who was cute and strong and excited about marriage and who also expected a 50/50 home workload distribution.
But you had never been trained to do a decent job at any of the household chores. And when I tried to teach you you wouldn’t listen because, in your life, these tasks were either already done by someone else or just not important to you. You started seeing me as a bitch who criticized everything you do, and I saw you as another child I have to clean up after.”
He takes a deep breath. Sensing that this was going well, I powered on…
“It’s a curse on your generation of the male gender. Your mom never took the time to teach you how to do a good job cleaning the kitchen, while MY mom was wearing pants to work, shattering glass ceilings, and coming home telling me that men should be 50/50 partners and that gender stereotypes were ending with her generation of women.”
“Yes,” he says. “Your mother was definitely wearing the pants.”
This is really going somewhere so I go on…
“I expected you to be capable and eager in the home, and you expected to toss some dishes in the dishwasher once in a while, ignore the rest of the mess, and walk away. It was a total setup for disaster!”
“Passengers at gate 78 heading to Detroit, we are now boarding First Class and Diamond Medallion members.”
My husband slings his backpack over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows.
I am a tumbleweed of ideas bouncing across the dusty plains of our marital desert.
“It's just you and me now, the kids are gone. I know what we should do! We could each write down 3 things in our lives that are really important to us, and whatever those things are - we both agree to do them the way our partner needs them to be done in order for them to feel happy! That way, we are both compromising and showing love through our actions.”
He says, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! It’s a great idea because then I can teach you how to clean a kitchen so that I’m not mother f-ing you under my breath and you can teach me your stuff so you don’t roll your eyes behind my back and think I’m a jerk! Wouldn’t that be AWESOME?!!!”
“Sky Priority and Comfort Plus you may now board through gate 78.”
His silence is confusing.
“See, it was all a setup,” I say with a finger pointed up.
“We were never taught how to live together in harmony! This is literally the answer to a ton of our issues! What do you think?”
“I … don’t … know,” he says taking a breath between each word.
“Wouldn’t it be great if we move forward never being pissed at each other for the little things?” My voice is filled with energy and hope!
“Zone 1 you may now board through gate 78.”
“I mean, yeah.” He answers and shakes his head with that look on his face that I read as…
Sister, ain't nothin’ gonna change around here in this department.
We roll our bags between us and get into the line. Then we board the plane, take our seats and he starts fiddling with the TV screen.
The conversation is clearly over.
I keep asking myself the same question.
How do feminist women in retirement get their husbands to see that the Jenga tower is full of holes, and we can either add bricks or take them away?
Perhaps this was a conversation best started on the couch and not in an airport. But that’s not where I have my best ideas.