Domestic Divo and an Agreement
The other morning, I woke up early (well, 7:00 a.m. is early for a Saturday morning) and went down to the kitchen for coffee. I noticed an assorted pile of bottles, nipples, cups, dishes and utensils on the kitchen counter next to the sink. While everyone was asleep and the house was utterly quiet, I thought I would do a little bit of cleaning up. I started to wash the bottles with soap and warm water and got lost in my morning thoughts. "Hey, this actually isn't too bad." There was something mildly therapeutic about getting the place cleaned up and putting chaos outside with the garbage from the night before. Could it be that I was becoming domesticated?
In the old days, Tracie and I had an agreement. Anything inside the house was her responsibility. Anything in the yard and the garage was mine. It was not to say that there was an exclusivity in chores for anyone in particular, but as a general rule of thumb, we knew where to assign blame. A pile of laundry that was crawling along the closet floor on its own would be an indication that Tracie was falling behind on her domestic duties. A yard full of weeds or a tall hedge that covered up the entire 2-story house would totally be my bad. A trail of kitty litter throughout the house? Well, that would be part of the exception - the fine prints in our domestic agreement where, for once, what's mine is entirely mine. The cat and its caretaking, including cleaning up after it, would still be my duty long after my corpse had rotted and blew away in the wind.
Then BAM. I got Tracie pregnant (or she made me do it, depending on who you ask), and the agreement was in jeopardy. By the doctor's order as well as by our parents' decrees, she was not to be exposed to chemicals, eat chocolate, drink caffeine, do heavy lifting, eat sushi, drink alcohol, pet the cat or climb a ladder. I started doing more around the house. I took comfort in believing that it was a temporary arrangement. Everything would be back to normal once the baby came, except for a few minor adjustments to the contract. Yeah right. I did most of the ironing, vacuuming, dusting and bathroom cleaning. Now and then, I would cook and clean. I even folded women's underwear. Little did I know that I was on my way to bigger and better things.
Back to reality. I looked down. Holy smoke!! I was barefooted and in the kitchen. There was something inherently wrong with this picture. Wasn't I supposed to be the breadwinner of this family who brings home the bacon so that someone else could fry it up in the pan? Now I know a few quick stints at the kichen sink and in the laundry room don't exactly make me Mr. Mom. Heck, I can't even recall when was the last time I rolled up my sleeve to cook dinner for the family. I think I'm just a spoiled ol' fart. The sudden realization of this truth snapped me out of my moment of soul-searching. Yawn. I went back to bed. Maybe I'll attempt to vacuum the house later this week. Why fight it? Tracie is going back to work in a few weeks. She does a ton around the house anyway. It's time I pick up the slack and do my share. Tracie's mom is heading home in a few days. We won't have anyone else to buffer us when we don't feel like cooking or cleaning. Domestic chaos is NOT an option (at least not yet). Tracie and I have to negotiate a new agreement. Unless the agreement involves a new French maid outfit for me (ooh la la), I am ok with being a domestic divo so that Tracie can have more time with her new role as a domestic mama.
In the old days, Tracie and I had an agreement. Anything inside the house was her responsibility. Anything in the yard and the garage was mine. It was not to say that there was an exclusivity in chores for anyone in particular, but as a general rule of thumb, we knew where to assign blame. A pile of laundry that was crawling along the closet floor on its own would be an indication that Tracie was falling behind on her domestic duties. A yard full of weeds or a tall hedge that covered up the entire 2-story house would totally be my bad. A trail of kitty litter throughout the house? Well, that would be part of the exception - the fine prints in our domestic agreement where, for once, what's mine is entirely mine. The cat and its caretaking, including cleaning up after it, would still be my duty long after my corpse had rotted and blew away in the wind.
Then BAM. I got Tracie pregnant (or she made me do it, depending on who you ask), and the agreement was in jeopardy. By the doctor's order as well as by our parents' decrees, she was not to be exposed to chemicals, eat chocolate, drink caffeine, do heavy lifting, eat sushi, drink alcohol, pet the cat or climb a ladder. I started doing more around the house. I took comfort in believing that it was a temporary arrangement. Everything would be back to normal once the baby came, except for a few minor adjustments to the contract. Yeah right. I did most of the ironing, vacuuming, dusting and bathroom cleaning. Now and then, I would cook and clean. I even folded women's underwear. Little did I know that I was on my way to bigger and better things.
Back to reality. I looked down. Holy smoke!! I was barefooted and in the kitchen. There was something inherently wrong with this picture. Wasn't I supposed to be the breadwinner of this family who brings home the bacon so that someone else could fry it up in the pan? Now I know a few quick stints at the kichen sink and in the laundry room don't exactly make me Mr. Mom. Heck, I can't even recall when was the last time I rolled up my sleeve to cook dinner for the family. I think I'm just a spoiled ol' fart. The sudden realization of this truth snapped me out of my moment of soul-searching. Yawn. I went back to bed. Maybe I'll attempt to vacuum the house later this week. Why fight it? Tracie is going back to work in a few weeks. She does a ton around the house anyway. It's time I pick up the slack and do my share. Tracie's mom is heading home in a few days. We won't have anyone else to buffer us when we don't feel like cooking or cleaning. Domestic chaos is NOT an option (at least not yet). Tracie and I have to negotiate a new agreement. Unless the agreement involves a new French maid outfit for me (ooh la la), I am ok with being a domestic divo so that Tracie can have more time with her new role as a domestic mama.
posted by DaddyEyeduck at 10:28 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home