Housewife Duties

My househusband:

The past two summers, he's been at home. We had many, many arguments the first summer because he did not take care of the house while I worked. I would talk to my mother who would calm me down and remind me that sometimes, things like clean counters and laundry aren't the most important thing. That first summer though - it was difficult. That was *my* kitchen he was messing in. That was *my* laundry room.

Then last summer, I steeled myself to a bit more mess and tried to let go a little. Maybe it wasn't *my* stuff - maybe it was ours. My mother and I continued our sessions where she would play cheerleader. I would clench my jaw and bite my tongue when I would come home after a long day at work to find him lounging amidst the squallor.

It all culminated on one fateful day in August when the pile of recycling at the bottom of the pantry finally pushed me over the edge. I grabbed a garbage bag and started piling things in and like the holy grail - there at the bottom of the pantry was a bag of rotten potatoes. I lost it. I dragged my husband up to the pantry, pointed out the disgusting, fruit fly infested rotten potato soup that very nearly ruined the hardwood and asked him when exactly he would have thought to throw them out?

He replied: We can never make you happy.

one, two, three, four, five...

I decided I needed to leave right then and there. I'd better get out of the house before I said terribly mean and resentful things. I searched for my car keys but I suppose God decided to save my sorry ass and keep me off the roads because I never did find my keys.

Finally - in a scene so dramatic it may have belonged in Gone With the Wind - I walked out into the lone prairie, found myself a rock sticking out of the ground and sat down. I pouted and cried and hissed. I was completely unaware of what exactly I was angry about - could soupy potatoes really cause this much chaos? I sat there long enough that eventually the dogs wandered by, completely unaware that I was hiding and were rather startled to find their mommy sitting out there.

Eventually I went inside and we talked about the soupy potatoes and whatever profound meaning I'd attached to them. He admitted he was not a very good housewife and he would try to be better. I admitted I was a bigger chauvinist than he was because never in our marriage had he freaked out about soupy potatoes (and yes...there had been some on my watch too).

Fast forward to this summer and this morning: I opened the pantry door and was rather shocked to see the recyclables neatly in a bucket, the flour and sugar pails pushed against the wall and the floor scrubbed clean.

I guess...I can stop...complaining?

huh. He's become a good housewife and I am not complaining. I am *not* complaining. I'm not. Really. I'm not.