I’m envious of those women who wind up on The Today Show for
going
”
on strike.
”
I’m envious of those women who wind up on The Today Show for going “on strike.”
I secretly applaud them for their stand. What strength they must have. Not to be the voice of every other harried wife and mom out there who works 9 to 5, comes home and does another 6 to 11 shift, but to actually let that second job slide. To let the dishes pile up, the laundry loom as large as Devil’s Peak and the dust bunnies scatter on the floor in her wake while she refuses to vacuum another floor.
Like those women, I also have the same struggle, but admittedly, most of mine is internal.
I know The Kids don’t care if the kitchen sink is clean or the trash is taken out, and The Husband certainly never complains if he can write his name in the dust on the coffee table, for fear I’d shove the dust cloth into his hand. The problem with that is, if they don’t “see” it, that doesn’t still mean it doesn’t need to be taken to the curb, cleaned or dusted.
I’m a survivor of what The Husband calls Anal Retentive Disorder. (Ironically named, since disorder is the enemy.)
When I was first married almost 17 years ago, I was young; 20, to be exact. I grew up in the ’70s, thinking that all women should work hard at what they do, inside or outside of the home.
My own mother didn’t work outside for a good portion of my growing up years. But if you took a little bit of Peg Bundy from Married With Children and Fran Drescher, from The Nanny, you’d have my mom. Not a fan of actual housework, really, although our house was always clean, with the help of two little cleaning fairies (my sister and I), and cooking was done with a heavy New York accent and heavy on the starches.
I wanted to be the perfect everything. I wanted to cook (we all know how that turned out). I wanted to clean. (I once got into trouble for “polishing” some antique doorknobs until they sparkled in a house I was cleaning while working a housekeeping gig in my younger years. They were not supposed to sparkle. I didn’t have a housekeeping gig for too much longer after that.) But growing up on Brady Bunch re-runs, little girls get grand ideas about what being a grown-up lady is like. I wanted to be Carol Brady. Minus the brood, fighting over the single bathroom and the buttinski housekeeper.
Things began to get tiring. Not right away though. I put up a good fight, like all Bradyite Wannabes. I pressed Army uniforms for the Husband, and even helped him polish his boots; had supper on the table complete with candles and music and all of our doorknobs sparkled because they were supposed to. Life was good.
Nearly two years later, along comes The Girl and things change slightly. I have no time to press and starch anything, and gone were the candles and music at dinner. They were replaced by hungry baby wailing. I would make up for it by staying up until well after midnight to make sure The Husband had lunch for the next day and the house was as neat as a pin for the next go-around at 7 a.m. Always start out with a clean slate, I always say.
Now, there is a Boy in the mix, a cat and the two adults (who are they, again?) both work full time. So, it comes as no surprise that the one with the ovaries still does the majority of the domestic chores. Although, The Husband is on his own for lunch now.
Could it be that while I was harboring fantasies of being Mrs. Brady, The Husband was daydreaming of marrying her?
Curse you, Carol Brady! I am no Peg Bundy.
Kelly Sinon can be reached at
sk*****@ao*.com
.
She lives in Gilroy with her family.
