More on Housework
Something in me just snapped on Sunday afternoon.
I'd been home from New York for about 36 hours and our place was still in its mid-renovation state of dustiness and mess. My suitcase, open but not fully unpacked, was on the bedroom floor, along with a scattering of dirty clothes my husband had left there during his week here alone.
A mountain of laundry -- sheets, towels and yet more dirty clothes -- was shoved in the closet.
The bathrooms, mostly finished, with new tile, new vanities and sinks, newly painted walls and newly hung blinds and towel bars, were grimy with sawdust and grit. All the stuff that had been cleared out of the old cabinets had been thrown back, haphazardly, into the new ones.
In a weird way, I was sort of proud of myself for not caring. Ever since we first started dating (and particularly since we've been married) I've been trying to master the whole laid-back, unfazed-by-anything attitude that allows R. to maintain a constant even keel.
So, on Sunday morning, we took a long, sweet walk around our neighborhood. We relaxed and chatted. We went out for lunch.
And I didn't give a second thought to the mess.
But, then, he headed downtown for a few hours and I was left alone in the house. With the mess.
I tried, at first, to ignore it. To sit down at my computer and get some work done.
But I found it impossible to concentrate.
"I'll just get the bathrooms organized," I thought.
But, since I had to put some of the stuff from my suitcase away in the bathroom, I decided to unpack as well. Which led to laundry.
Pretty soon I was swiffering and dust-busting and unloading the dishwasher.
(Side note: Perhaps if I wrote for the New York Times, I would be so engaged in my high-minded work that I would not know what a Swiffer is. Alas.)
Five hours later, my house was as clean as it is going to get with renovation work still in progress. (My standards for kitchen cleanliness do slide when the kitchen in question does not have, say, a sink.)
And I felt deeply calmed and satisfied. And also a little embarassed by my own neuroses.
This sense of embarassment was only compounded by (once again) picking up the Sunday Times, heading for the Style section. (Yes, I read the Weddings and Celebrations pages as if they were the Sports section, what of it?)
The big "think" piece in this week's Style section is this exploration of women and housework.
Some key quotes:
Two things are clear. First, women still do more housework then men. Married women spend twice as much time on housework than their husbands, and single women spend twice as much time on housework as single men. Second, much time that could be spent cleaning is spent fighting about it.
Thankfully, in my house we don't actually fight about it. It's just not worth it.
Yes, it is true that society still assumes this to be women's work. And yes, it is true that many men do all they can to avoid their share. But it is also true that many women are guilty of what sociologists call "gate keeping": building a fence around a territory, be it vacuuming or child care or grocery shopping, and defending it as theirs. They set the standards in that realm, and they set them high. Sometimes unrealistically so.
While I was away, R. played host to out-of-town cousins who were stuck in Chicago waiting for a flight back home from a trip to England. He had them sleep in our bed, which he made up for them with fresh sheets, and offered them plenty of clean towels and hospitality. He does all the important stuff right. Who am I to complain that his tolerance for dust bunnies seems dangerously high? I really am working on setting more realistic standards. Really.
