Woman Child’s Work….
That was the answer I received when I asked if there was coffee yesterday morning. What? Really? We are back at the division of labor based on gender again are we?
I don’t even get offended by the Woman Child thing, it is said almost affectionately, it is also a cultural thing that I have long since accepted. Nevertheless, we are falling backward into old habits. So I asked casually from within my blanket cave, “What then is Man Child’s work?”
You see I thought for a brief and shinning time we had consensus, coffee was whoever was first out of bed and making the bed was whoever was last out of it. Everything else, well that was up for negotiation day-by-day, week by week (thus my previous discussion of Gremlin Wranglers).
Woman Child, pffttt
Man Child says in dulcet tenor tones (I love his voice), nothing is his ‘work’.
How does that happen? Nothing? Mind you, I have noted a slacking off lately of Man Childs participation in our household. Drawers hanging open (one of my pet peeves). Dishes on counters, laundry on the floor and the entry littered with mail and sundry other items he drops there unthinkingly each afternoon. I have been tripping over his shoes, which never seem to make it to the closet and his gym bag, which seems to have found a home in the center of the bedroom floor.
It is winter in Texas, our grass doesn’t grow our trees and shrubs are doormat. Even when spring comes though Man Child has out, allergies will keep him away from lawn care. No Man Child work to be had come verdant spring in Texas, indeed, for all the years of our marriage we have paid a price for his health.
Man Child watches me from our spa like bath, smiles cunningly dimples puckering his cheeks (I love his dimples), “You could divorce me”. He says this to me sometimes to get a reaction, today without coffee isn’t a good time though.
I crawl out of my blanket cave glare evilly and with malicious intent, “Honey, why ever would I do that? Why should you be happy?” You see I have a sense of irony even without coffee.
I have forgiven him everything. I crawl to the kitchen to pour my first cuppa of the day. Still there is the nagging feeling we have slacked on the division of labor, or maybe it really is just time for help. He does ask as he leaves for work, “how is the search for the perfect maid going?” He knows my buttons!
I nonetheless feel compelled to remind him as he is closing the front door, “Your mother simply didn’t raise you right!” He glares, then smiles; I know his buttons just as well as he knows mine.
Love you, honey.