Dan the Man

After last week’s blog, Dan told me that he’d kind of liked what I wrote, but that he felt like he’d been left completely out of the equation I had described. I explained to him that last week’s blog was a trimmed-down political rant that almost veered in socialism and that I’d been focusing more on the experience of everywoman and not myself, specifically.

As a fairly affluent working mom with a very supportive husband and wonderful friends who keep offering to baby-sit, my experience is not entirely representative.

I want to drop a word of thanks to my dear husband, whom I love madly, who sometimes stays out too late and is rather limp and somewhat limited the next day, but who always comes back and does the dishes, the laundry, the yard, and takes care of Connor for my Sunday morning sleep-in or Saturday nap. If I really need it, he’s got my back. He doesn’t quite do the dishes or the laundry the way I would, but do the forks, knives and spoons really need to be sorted in different parts of the silverware holder in the dishwasher? Does the laundry really need to be sorted like a librarian on Dexedrine with (Dan’s shorts, Dan’s shirts, Dan’s socks, Dan’s skivvies, my shirts, my skirts, my tights, my skivvies, baby clothes, baby socks, baby blankets, baby towels, our towels, upstairs washcloths, downstairs washcloths, baby bag wash cloths – well, you get the picture). Dan’s housekeeping isn’t as Japanese, center-the-vase, laundry-origami, Rage for Order kind as mine is, but it is not to be discounted either. When I get home, the deeds are done; and done is beautiful. And when did I get to be such a freak anyway?

A recent U.S. News and World Report article cited more supportive spouses as one of the major new tools available for working moms. Alongside flexible work schedules, non-peak hour travel, working at home and starting their own businesses, the article cited spouses who were either willing, or had been convinced they were able, to take on more of the housework. I’m mentally stacking this up against word-of-mouth reports from husbands who say that they’d like to be more involved in the childrearing or housekeeping, but feel like every time they pick up the baby, a sauce pot or a load of clothes, their efforts are so heavily criticized as to be discouraged.

What?!?!?

Why are my over-worked, over-tired, over-zealous ladies in arms doing such a very, very stupid thing (and I don’t believe in the word “stupid” in general, but this is stupid!)? Now, first- time parents can be driven by inexperience and anxiety to a great deal of fussing over the right way to sleep-train, feed, dress clean and properly stimulate our little darlings. We easily cut deals like “Okay, you be boss cause I’m tired of fighting about it.” By the second or third child usually the knowledge base and the understanding that babies are harder to kill, ruin or just maim from ignorance saves the marital energy for other fights. But if the darling man (or woman!) wants to help, let him or her. And don’t fuss. If your laundry is folded like a Shar Pei puppy, so what, at least it’s clean. If the dishwasher, when opened for unloading, looks like a Macy’s houseware’s department exploded, so what! At least it’s done and you have a clean cup for your coffee. If your bathroom is wiped down but not bleached into EPA-report toxicity, so be it! You can at least put the baby in the tub without getting cat hair between his fingers.

Not that our household bliss wasn’t hard won. Some remember the blog a couple of weeks ago fussing and fuming that was quickly taken down and replaced with another. A week of negotiating for a life that works is cheap at twice the price, even if it’s half the laundry detergent. And letting go may be the first step to getting everything you want.

This weekend I stayed up too late, got up too early, did too little on Saturday, tried to make it up on Sunday while Connor peed, pooped, urped and lurped on me. No manuscripts were cleaned up, only little clothes and certain muslin blankets and spots on the floor. Dan did the yards, washed the clothes, put in a much-needed doorknob and latch on a door (babyproofing!) and brought me a lamp. I did some dishes and made some dim-sum – not well, but it’s a work in progress. Sunday night, I had to wash Connor from the series of nasty things he’d done to himself and that’s one load of laundry that should probably be handled with Haz-Mat gear. Nonetheless, the house was happy, got clean, and no-one yelled.

It’s the good life.