In August last year Mrs Carruthers beguiled me into bringing my office home. This would save money, she argued. And with her embarking on a three-year degree course this would mean a safe presence for the little darlings. And we could then afford to live near the school, and somewhere in her sales pitch I detected the merest hint of connubial bliss.
Well! Working from home has a downside.
The worst vocation on earth: the role of housewife. Right up there with the 12 tasks of Hercules. Especially in Norway where a domestic assistant earns R20K+ each month. We do not hire one.
Before I venture into the travails of housekeeping let me apologise to my mother and to every woman I lived with.
I am sorry for not noticing the clean kitchen every single day. I am embarrassed for not thanking you for the clean floors most days. I am sad for only noticing my clean and ironed clothes on the one day they were not clean or ironed. I apologise for leaving dishes on every surface without worrying about who would wash them. Thousands of times.
But, in my defence, and that of men in general, when the tide turns, power shifts. I noticed this when, after a year, Mrs Carruthers wondered aloud whether one of the boys had vacuumed the stairs.
I was tempted to reply “WTF. They’ve slept since Sunday. March 27th. 2013. Other than when they rose to mess in the kitchen.”
Instead, I admitted to cleaning the stairs every few days as relaxation from the rigours of my day job. She left silently to find some nail varnish.
Don’t get me wrong. I rather like her. But the person not tasked with maintaining domestic tidiness simply does not notice it.
And then, the kids. Mrs Carruthers spoke of a domestic presence. The kids regard me as a household present. Either to play with (the 9-year-old) or to clean up (the boy and the young adult). My life is complete.
My dream gift from the person with a real life in the great outdoors, or anywhere else outside: Tonight, en route home, grab a bottle of Shiraz and some sushi. Bang open the front door, rip off your clothes and yell “Come here big boy.” Your househusband will shine through the next 12 months of slave labour.
If your woman is looking after your home may I suggest that “Come here big girl” lacks the same effect? And ripping your clothes off may not be construed with quite the same enthusiasm. Paying for her night off at the Mount Nelson with room service thrown in, and yourself as an optional extra, might work better.
Failing which, walk through your home tonight and notice the work it demands. Don’t notice the stuff undone. Other than to fix it yourself. Enjoy the exercise. And say thanks. Do this every night.
If your partner holds down a fulltime job as well as doing the housework and looking after the kids, no matter how arduous you might think your work is, she (or he) is in a whole different world. Bring gifts. Lots of them.
It’s taken me 40 interesting years to learn this. You might want to save yourself the fallout.