Back in the good ole “when I wasn’t working” days, Junior would wake anywhere from 6 and 7 a.m. and I would dutifully retrieve him from his room. Then I would change him, sing to him, dress him, and feed him, all the while letting Charles blissfully continue his slumber (aren’t I fabulous?).
At 8:45 a.m., Charles would wail from the comfort of the covers, “I don’t waaaaaant to get up.” Then he would drop out of the bed, roll to the shower, slither into his clothes, and run out the door.
How very convenient. (I love the article “Chores Can Cause Conflict in Your Marriage”—this headline is as profound as, “The sky is blue” and the cutesy couple in the photo makes me want to puke).
Thankfully, now that I work, life’s a little hunky dorier on the shared responsibilities front. Charles gets out of bed when I do. He washes dishes and makes dinner and Swiffers. He does so much more, in fact, that lately our conversations remind me of two children fighting over whose chores are more pressing. Like this morning:
Charles: “You give him breakfast. I have to iron my shirt” (passes Junior to me).
Me: “But I have a load of laundry in the machine. And I still have to put on my make-up” (pass Junior back).
Charles: “You look fine without it. I have to bring in the recycling container, unload the dishwasher, shave, and sort the mail” (passes Junior back).
Me: “You never sort the mail. And I just look 'fine?' Fine is so…tepid.” (pass Junior back).
Charles: “I do too sort the mail. Plus I have to wash the car” (passes Junior back).
Me: “Oh yah? Well I have to pay the bills, churn the butter, wash my hair, wax the floor, and mend your socks” (pass Junior back).
Charles: “Well I have to poo” (smiles and then passes Junior back).
Dammit! When it comes to who feeds the kid breakfast, nothing trumps bodily functions.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.