Tubs and I often debate who has the more difficult role in our family. Of course it is me and I don’t know why I entertain any discussion to the contrary, but I invariably fall into the trap of trying to justify myself all too often. I assume this is a topic which causes conflict in many a home as women increasingly juggle work and home life in difficult financial times.
As grateful as I am that Tubs cooks and does the dishes most nights, and that he is capable of following orders to bath the children and supervise homework on occasions, I can’t help but envy his limited (and somewhat optional) role on the home front. He is quite at peace in a room with shoes, books and toys strewn from one end to the other, while dishes fester in the kitchen sink and filthy clothes overflow from laundry baskets.
I envy the luxury of opening one's wardrobe and chest of drawers, secure in the knowledge that there will always be a clean pair of underpants and outfit for the day. I imagine the joy in mindlessly removing one's clothing and dropping them on the floor, only for them to magically appear washed, lovingly folded or ironed and back where they belong upon your return. To find the fridge full of food and simply asking what needs to be prepared for the evening meal, rather than having to fight through a supermarket with children, planning meals as you go, umpiring said children going through the self check out, and unpacking the food at home.
To never have to deal with a single school notice, provide a shared food plate, arrange birthday presents and attendances at parties and constantly think about what uniform needs to be clean on what day, let alone who needs to be immunized for what disease! It is exhausting just thinking about it and I am surprised I have not had some kind of melt down.
When these debates arise, Tubs generously offers to swap roles and talks dismissively about how he would leap at the chance to be the stay at home mum. He says I have never seen organisation of the kind that he would bring to our home. I know he says this to stir me and as tempting as it is to take him up on his offer and watch him flounder and fail, I restrain myself. I am able to do this because I know that he would not run the house in a manner that I could live with. He would delegate and outsource as many roles as he could, and the others would be done in a distinctly man-ish way and not at all to my liking. I have to look away when he is ironing as I can’t stand the wrinkles left behind, I reject his rare offers to help hang out the washing as I end up re-hanging every item, and I have been known to do the dishes after a roast because I know he simply won’t clean them properly.
I clearly suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder to some degree. I admit that and perhaps I am my own worst enemy. But there are standards which I require in order to feel in control and ‘at home’ and I wholeheartedly blame (and thank) my equally OCD mother and father for this.
After Tubs and I exchange grossly inflammatory remarks about who has the most difficult role, we silently agree to disagree because I think that secretly we both know that neither of us wants the other’s job. I don’t want the pressure of providing for a family of six, nor do I want to miss out on the precious time I spend with our children. I also firmly believe that I do a better job on the home-running front, and leave the majority of the ‘fun parent’ time for Tubs. I prefer the nurturing and rule-making roles when it comes to the kids, and I like that our roles within the home are clearly defined. But don’t tell Tubs that!
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