His Say: She's Working, I'm Not
It's the simplest of concepts: you grow up, get a good job and support your family (my mother amended that slightly by telling me that I was to grow up, get a good job and support her). But last summer my company announced that the "good job" part of the equation was over - I'd been made redundant.
Before telling my friends that I had been relegated to the dreaded role of "House Husband," I worked the "hypothetical' question, "Hey, guys, what do you think about a man who stays home while his girlfriend works?" into casual conversations. I was not encouraged. "I reckon he's just a wimp," offered one, a rugby-playing doctor, "He probably likes ikebana, too."
Well I'm not and, as it happens, I don't. But knowing that the majority of men agree with my doctor friend did serve to drive a new reality home; as I contemplate another day of unemployment, another day of watching her come home with a paycheck, I can feel safe in the knowledge that as bad as I feel about it, most men think I should feel even worse.
But do I? Just a few years ago, a man was suspected of flower-arranging-wimpdom if his significant other worked at all: attitudes change with the times and as unemployment is not exactly a rare thing these days, I predict a shift towards the middle on this one (he says hopefully).
The frustration I feel stems more from an impotent rage, my own feeling that I could be doing something better, than from outside pressure to "do something." I'm doing quite a bit, actually.
Which brings us to Housework. While the Distribution of Household Labour has radically progressed since Fred and Wilma Flintstone switched places for a day (resulting in Fred covering the neighbourhood with boiled rice and Wilma dropping a boulder on Mr Slate's head), the advent of the two worker household hasn't quite drawn up clear Lines of Division.
When we were both working, things ended up being done, I must admit, about 75% her and 25% me. I am a proponent of the "Well, she likes to sweep-Hoover-launder-and-clean-the-bathroom" school of rationalisation. For some reason, I've always found washing the dishes a relaxing diversion; I chill out when my hands are immersed in warm water, so Dishes became mine.
And we cooked together, making each evening's meal preparation a portrait of cooperation previously seen only in marriage counselling videos and on Sesame Street.
Then came the unpleasantness as my company merged, converged and ultimately divested itself of me. After shock, anger, a "Yeah, well fuck you, too" Balinese holiday and a brief period of remarkably petulant self-pity, I settled down to the realities of my new role: CV-sending, shopping, cleaning and cooking, the latter two amidst a droning soundscape of daytime television and "Get A Career in Hairdressing" advertisements.
In my new role I've become concerned with butter-brand price differentials, household cleaning products and consideration of SPAM as a food substance. I stave boredom by engaging in previously unheard of forms of entertainment: removing mildew from betweenst the cracks in the bathroom tiles and worrying about whether Tom and Nicolette will stick it through. The labour division now stands at 75% me and 25% her (and I still have the dishes).
But housework aside, there's still the nagging question put forth by acquaintances and friends bold enough to risk a bellowing fit from a "domesticated" man, to wit: "Doesn't it bother you?" To answer it, I think one needs to be more specific.
Does what bother me? That I've been relegated to the role of House Husband? Or that it's societally considered, er, unmanly to be at home while the "little woman" brings home the bacon? A resounding YES, it drives me up the wall and I'm ready for it to end, thank you very much.
But does it bother me that she's bringing home that bacon for me to fry up? Not on your life. And while some may think I'm a bum for sitting around the house during the day (though I prefer to think my neighbours see me as eccentric and affluent), I take comfort in my newly discovered appreciation of what women have been saying since the dawn of time: YOU try it and tell me if it isn't work.
And there's a reason I'm doing better than I thought I would: she knows what I'm going through and, more important, shows me she knows I wouldn't if I didn't have to. A few well-placed remarks in the early days, like "So, Mr. Mom, did you remember to dust under the lounge chair?" would have sent me hurling into the abyss of self-pity. Instead, she gave me support without condescension, sympathy without charity and respect for at least making order of the house, if not my career.
That's not to suggest that we didn't have problems at first. One of the hardest things was getting to a point where I could accept my new role to the point of (egad) telling people what I did now. One evening I heard her say to a friend, "He's thinking of starting a business at home." I wanted to run over and kiss her, but then she added, "I hope he does...he's a much better housekeeper than I am."
All told, it hasn't been as bad as I'd feared. I'm lucky enough to have a partner with enough brains and initiative to float us both for a while and there's not much there to cause problems. Our sex life has, to our profound relief, remained outrageous.
And fortunately, I still have money in the bank. Because who knows what will happen the day I have to say, "Uh, Honey...Could I have some money to...."
Stay tuned....
