I can hear someone yelling in frustration ‘who do you think is going to do it? The Fairies?’ The someone sounds like my mother, but uh oh, it’s actually me. I’m instructing the Dark Princess in the ways of household maintenance! She’s not exactly biddable. She breezed into the warm house after musical practice, threw her shoes off in the hall, hurled her school bag into the corner, inspected the fridge for eats and then slumped into the nearest couch. My Englishman was folding washing, I was preparing dinner and divvying up tasks.
She ignores me.
‘Please it won’t take long, everyone’s doing a couple of jobs each..’
She didn’t budge. I tried again and then too quickly reached the cartoon steam-cooker moment where the siren goes.
‘Look, tell you what, how about you come in here and prepare dinner…’ and I was off, and no one could stop me.
‘.. and when you’ve finished that then you can fold the four loads of washing I’ve done today and put them away in everyone’s room, and feed dog and cat, and then vacuum downstairs and tidy up the lounge and put clothes away in your room, and then if you have some time you can get onto the computer and write two blog posts, put up a new website, finish editing that article, learn html or xhtml or whatever, and then get in the car and drive up in the dark to the shop to get some more milk because someone skulled 8 pints!
‘I get it I get it you’re busy’ she said glassy eyed not budging.
And that’s when I heard it, my mother saying ‘who do you think is going to do the washing the ironing, the cleaning, the cooking? The fairies?’ And she was talking about the housework – women’s work in the good old fashioned 1960s. Back in the day, when my father refused to install a dishwasher, because he had ‘two girls to do the washing up’.
Dark Princess simmered. ‘but I don’t want to do it!’ I flashed her a dark eyed warning. Don’t go there. ‘Want.. let me tell you about want..’
I actually didn’t say the last bit. I just couldn’t. Cleaning up dog poo, scrubbing loos and cooking cleaning and licking floors clean, are not high on my list of ‘wants’. I want tall glasses of Mojito and a towel on the beach on the Coromandel; I want freelance work that affirms me and time to read Red and Psychologies cover to cover, and a money tree to boot!
I’m not lazy, I just don’t want to be defined by housework, and ever since my brains fell out with the placenta I’ve found myself struggling to juggle the demands of house and work. Especially as work is in the house, and the house is full to overflowing with teens, tweenies and pets. Everyone seems to think that working from home means that you sit quietly at the laptop with gin & tonic in hand whilst the children play beatifically in the background, the chef rustles something up from the ladder and the fairies do the housework!
My plan has always been since I started working from home 15 years ago to get everyone out of the house and then let the dishes sit where they fall, let the washing tarry in the dryer and let the chaos continue around me whilst I focus on the consulting work I have, until everyone comes home. I figure let the daytime hours be for chargeable work and contacting people and the night time be for all the other stuff. I thank God for the modern conveniences. I worship daily at the altar of the domestic holy trinity – the microwave, the dishwasher and the coffee machine. As long as these things are in working order, the household continues (kind of) around me until it’s break time at 6pm and time to cook for everyone, and be mummy and wifey.
Generally it works but if someone visits during the day or My Englishman comes home early, I’m caught with my knickers down around my ankles. It’s not seductive. I genuinely need the family’s help, I cannot possibly do it all – as I attempted to do when I was over-compensating for leaving their Father, as my mother did when she felt valued through her housework. I need the respect for what I can manage to achieve using my knowledge, brains and skill. I just don’t get that from a clean pan, or a tidy house. Making a home is a lot more than making the beds.
But I’m challenged by my daughter, and I miss the days of being a selfish teenager when I didn’t do the things I didn’t want to do, back when my life consisted of being fed, being looked after, being driven around. Back when I could daydream about school girl trips to Spain – though in my day it was overland trips on the back of a truck to Europe.
But try as I might I cannot clap Tink, sorry. My working day is ruled by shoulds and musts with only a few ‘I’d like to’s’ thrown in, and I don’t believe in fairies wielding loo brushes anymore.
