Superman-ley

Yesterday morning my husband was more productive in 4 hours than I am over the course of a week. He managed to wash & fold 3 baskets of laundry, throw in a load of dishes, take out all of the trash in the house, clean the litter box, and bring the dog to the groomer’s. His efficiency was utterly mind-blowing. I offered to help him, but he refused, telling me that this was his job, too. [Touché.] While I took care of the children, I watched him course through the house with purpose and determination, admiring how focused he was at the tasks at hand, avoiding distraction. I was brimming with gratitude and a relative amount of awe. And, perhaps, a bit of jealousy coupled with, ironically, guilt. He’s the kind of person who refuses to rest even on his day off. He’s not only industrious, but thorough in his efforts. He’s the partner I want to be. He’s the parent I want to be. He’s Superman-ley.

His productivity allowed me to spend quality time with the kids. I got to scoot around the house with less stress, enjoying my cup of coffee while it was still HOT, and relished in the fact that the burdens of the household duties were not on me that morning. It was quite nice. But the perfectionist in me felt somewhat inadequate, while the mother in me felt lazy.

What is it about being a woman that brings on all of these pressures? Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves when we are given a break? Why can’t we accept help when it is offered and not feel the need to reciprocate? Why can’t we let someone else empty the dishwasher without feeling the need to jump in and grab the utensil caddy to lighten their load? Why is it that even when we are given that coveted trip to the grocery store, hair appointment or Girl’s Night Out, we can’t help but wonder, “Hmmmm… I wonder what the kids are doing right now… I should probably get home in case Daddy needs a hand. ” Why must we always be “On”?

The only break that I ever allow myself to take is a night off from cooking each week. It spares me from having to do something that I don’t particularly like: cooking. (It also, in turn, probably spares my family from having to something that they don’t particularly like: Eating my cooking.) But other than that, I feel that it is my job to do the majority of the housecleaning. I feel that it is my job to take care of the laundry. I feel that it is my job to entertain, educate, and nurture the children. And, in part, all of this is true. But Dan is right as well. This is our home, filled with our children. So I suppose that sharing the tasks that keep this place running does make sense. But would I be more accepting of this fact if I worked outside of the home?

This is something that I grapple with on an almost daily basis. There really is no easy answer either. To be honest, although I receive no paycheck for it, I do see myself as the CEO of Casa de Manley. Dan brings in the finances, but I manage most of the bills, clip the coupons and make the grocery lists. I create the weekly meal plans, carry out the bulk of the household chores, and organize the kids’ appointments and activities. (I am pretty sure that I am the only person in this house that knows how to interpret the color-coding on our calendar…) So when my hubby steps in to tackle some of “my job requirements”, I begin to feel a bit useless, as though I am taking a day off from work. Then I feel silly feeling this way—guilty, that is. If I were still teaching, I would get the weekends off, breaks in December, February, and April and the summers off. So why can’t I just simply give up the reins for one measly morning?

Why? Because I am a woman. I am a wife. I am a mother. I feel the overpowering need to be in control, to nurture, to help, to be of use all of the time. The problem with all of this is that, in addition to be being terrible at accepting my husband’s assistance, I am the QUEEN of starting a great project and then jetting off to do something else before the job is finished. Why, just the other day I managed to wash a load of laundry (forgetting to throw it in the dryer), attempted to organize the junk drawer, completed a series of puzzles with Caiden, sang songs to Ryan, made lunch, changed multiple diapers, mailed a letter, and cleaned the bathroom. But this wasn’t a series of smooth efforts. No. The result of my attempt to multitask was something just short of stinky laundry, puzzle pieces in the junk drawer, a half-eaten sandwich left on the changing table, and a tiny tune crooned about a somewhat clean bathroom. (Hey, at least I got to mail the letter out on time.) Ok, so I am over-exaggerating a bit, but my point is that when I try to do my job, I get all sidetracked. Dan makes it look so easy when he does it. Maybe that is why I have a hard time accepting his help, too. Because it makes me more aware of my shortcomings. This is something that I am sure will get easier over the years. (Oh Lord, I certainly HOPE that it will get easier.) My boys are still young, as is our marriage. I am hoping that in years to come I will get into a functional groove, making my home work like a well-oiled machine. I am hoping that this case of “baby-brain” is not terminal and I can focus more on individual tasks-- nonetheless finish them. I am hoping that as the years go on, as my children become more self-reliant, I can begin to glide through the daily demands as easily as my husband. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy my family, do my best to graciously accept and appreciate the assistance that my husband gives me, and aspire to someday give myself a break, not only from cooking once a week, but from the self-inflicted pressures of becoming Superwoman-ley.