The unperfect husband
I had a very interesting conversation the other day with a multi-millionaire businesswoman. We were talking about the work/marriage balance and she started in on the whole 'he doesn't help around the house' yada yada. But I just don't buy it.
Sure, as a roommate, my husband is more likely to leave a chocolate cake plate on the end table, more likely to forget we have a hamper when his socks have just hit the floor. But considering what his place looked like when I first met him... (imagine a table chucked high with every key, tool, newpaper, roll of duct tape, CD collection, empty snack bag with four crumbs in the bottom and twice-weekly pizza box a guy can accumulate in three months. In the middle of the living room. The bath tub? Thick, grey, sticky. Like one of those super-scum tester tubs on an infomercial. I have to stop thinking about it now or my breakfast will back up.) ...he's evolved into a miracle of neatness. And he's got the far side of the bedroom so mostly I just don't look.
So my point is, I don't expect him to be the person who notices the magazine pile needs sorting or the jackets are colonizing the comfy chair. He just wouldn't. If you buy into the whole indignant neatnik wife act you could get and stay really ticked off. But I look at it like I look at my office staff. I wouldn't ask my bookkeeper to be my art director -- it's not her skill set. Picking up and straightening up isn't in the hub's skill set. It is, very much, part of mine. And as a wise friend of mine pointed out, 'hey, you'd pick up the clothes and file the papers anyway, even if you lived alone. It's who you are. You can't blame your partner if it's not who they are.' And it's not like I didn't have ample warning.
But of course, it wouldn't be fair if he did nothing. So what do I get in exchange, in the marital/housekeeping tug of war? He's an amazing handyman. He just rebuilt one end of the beach house where the foundation had rotted away, re-channelled the plumbing, welded the new pipes, installed a new door, re-sided the house and built a deck onto it. Alone. In two weekends.
While he was busy we talked about dyeing the white cushions in the living room to cover the stains. I brightened up at the thought of my potential craft project until he pointed out, 'honey, I just can't see you pulling it off. You'll get bored halfway through and I'll have to finish. And I don't have time right now.' And he's right. I am the quick picker-upper, but I'm not your sustained-well-executed-project person. It's not my skillset. Halfway through baking cookies I get bored and wander off until someone smells them and asks me if I'm making something. "Oh! Yeah!" I laugh as I run to the kitchen just in time. I only manage to make the kid's pajamas because I cut them out one night and three months later remember to sew them while the pattern still fits. And pjs are easy because no one sees the hem.
It's a great thing living with someone who isn't perfect. It means I don't have to be perfect, either.
Sure, as a roommate, my husband is more likely to leave a chocolate cake plate on the end table, more likely to forget we have a hamper when his socks have just hit the floor. But considering what his place looked like when I first met him... (imagine a table chucked high with every key, tool, newpaper, roll of duct tape, CD collection, empty snack bag with four crumbs in the bottom and twice-weekly pizza box a guy can accumulate in three months. In the middle of the living room. The bath tub? Thick, grey, sticky. Like one of those super-scum tester tubs on an infomercial. I have to stop thinking about it now or my breakfast will back up.) ...he's evolved into a miracle of neatness. And he's got the far side of the bedroom so mostly I just don't look.
So my point is, I don't expect him to be the person who notices the magazine pile needs sorting or the jackets are colonizing the comfy chair. He just wouldn't. If you buy into the whole indignant neatnik wife act you could get and stay really ticked off. But I look at it like I look at my office staff. I wouldn't ask my bookkeeper to be my art director -- it's not her skill set. Picking up and straightening up isn't in the hub's skill set. It is, very much, part of mine. And as a wise friend of mine pointed out, 'hey, you'd pick up the clothes and file the papers anyway, even if you lived alone. It's who you are. You can't blame your partner if it's not who they are.' And it's not like I didn't have ample warning.
But of course, it wouldn't be fair if he did nothing. So what do I get in exchange, in the marital/housekeeping tug of war? He's an amazing handyman. He just rebuilt one end of the beach house where the foundation had rotted away, re-channelled the plumbing, welded the new pipes, installed a new door, re-sided the house and built a deck onto it. Alone. In two weekends.
While he was busy we talked about dyeing the white cushions in the living room to cover the stains. I brightened up at the thought of my potential craft project until he pointed out, 'honey, I just can't see you pulling it off. You'll get bored halfway through and I'll have to finish. And I don't have time right now.' And he's right. I am the quick picker-upper, but I'm not your sustained-well-executed-project person. It's not my skillset. Halfway through baking cookies I get bored and wander off until someone smells them and asks me if I'm making something. "Oh! Yeah!" I laugh as I run to the kitchen just in time. I only manage to make the kid's pajamas because I cut them out one night and three months later remember to sew them while the pattern still fits. And pjs are easy because no one sees the hem.
It's a great thing living with someone who isn't perfect. It means I don't have to be perfect, either.
posted by Whoopla at
2:31 PM
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