A Labour of Love

Since I became a full time housewife, arguments at our house have dropped by 85%. This is because the undertaking of chores was the main subject of ‘debate’ before I gave up paid employment to lovingly attend to those repetitive, mind numbingly dull little tasks that keep family members clean, warm and fed. However, a new topic is rapidly emerging as a source of contention albeit closely related to the original.

“You do it”. “No, you do it”. “I did the last one”. “Well, I did the one before that”.

After five days trying to catch and maintain a feisty toddler, I’m ready to check myself into a spa by the weekend in the vague hope that some life can be massaged back into my aching limbs and a miracle aromatherapy oil will replace the moisture in my hands that washing them 189 times a day has removed. That’s why I feel Accountant should be grateful that I’m even in the house come the weekend.

He sees things differently. After spending 2 hours a day in traffic and 10 hours at a desk doing sums to provide for his family, his weekends offer the promise of beer and football. This has produced a conflict of interest that has become increasingly tricky to navigate peacefully.

“I’ll do his nappy if you give him his tea”. “That’s not fair, nappies are easier”.

Previous negotiations have given me custody of Saturday mornings whilst Accountant gets Sundays. On his lie in day, I stagger out of bed at Chickie’s first semi-conscious woof, whisking him soundlessly downstairs, carefully closing all doors behind me. On my lie in day, Chickie is left babbling loudly until he starts wailing. At which point, I nudge Accountant to get up and he transfers himself to the bathroom where he blows his nose like a fog horn for five minutes. All doors are flung wide open and Chickie is deposited in bed to give mummy a good morning slap.

However, as it's time I was nice to Accountant, I've decided to be grateful that he's willing to get up at all and is fully trained in every aspect of childcare.