This might be nasty, but if I see another article about putting your husband ahead of your children or keeping the romance in your marriage or prevention of childhood obesity starts at home or seven simple window dressing ideas to spruce up your home I might just spruce up all over the porcelain pedestal.
Really, world. Give women a break.
Why do I not see as many articles about putting your wife ahead of your work? Or how playing outside with dad can also prevent childhood obesity?
And then I see things young women on my FB page holding banners that say “I don’t need feminism because….” and I want to shout at them that they feel this way because they are young, because they aren’t fettered with husbands and children and PTA and goddamn homemade meals every six hours or the need for wrinkle cream or to wash-that-gray-right-out-of-my-hair. They aren’t arguing with their husbands about telling your daughter “girls don’t sit that way” or with the in-laws that “boys don’t cry.”
Not that I’ve ever been a blazing feminist myself. But it’s just kind of getting to me recently, you know?
While Me Too was in the hospital, HRH did fuck all around the house. I was up and leaving (after getting up at dawn, making a hot breakfast, and doing laundry, mind you,) every morning before him, then coming home past the time he should have been in bed to find unfolded laundry, dirty dishes, DS sleeping in his clothes and in the same underwear again. (There is absolutely no excuse for this, as the child knows where his jammies and undies are kept.)
I noted it mentally, as in I seethed with rage at the injustice and expectation that I should do all things at all times house and kid related, no matter what else was going on, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have the energy for an argument, which I imagine would have gone in the “If you had asked me, I would have done it!” direction.
Then HRH tells me toward the end of the week that I should take on more work so he can stay home more.
Strangely enough, he didn’t whither and die on the spot, so apparently looks, on actuality, can not kill.
Who’d a-thunk it?
I gestured at the disgusting pigsty our house had managed to turn into the eighteen hours I had been gone, all the more amazing considering they ate all of their meals at MIL’s. “I’d be happy to, if you cook and clean up after yourself and the children when I’m not here,” I replied, impressed with my own restraint
He immediately began to back-pedal, and threw out some when-the-kids-are-bigger type statements. But it pissed me right off and I haven’t gotten over it yet.
I want something different, something better for my daughter. And for my son, who mentioned once in an offhand way that he would like to be a preschool teacher when he grows up. He would be great at this. He has a way with little kids, a toddler-whisperer, if you will. But my husband told him he’d never make enough money doing that to support a family, and that was that.