The Prestige of Laundry
They are a modern couple and therefore share tasks according to a complex
arrangement. Rabih goes to work five days a
week but comes home early on
Friday afternoons to look after the children, which he is also responsible for
doing on Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons. Kirsten works Mondays,
Tuesdays, and Wednesdays till two o’clock and on weekends is with the kids on
Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings.
He does Friday bathtime and
prepares supper four nights a week. She buys the food and the household
supplies, while he takes care of the trash, the car, and the garden.
It’s just after seven on a Thursday evening. Since this morning Rabih has
attended four meetings, dealt with a failing tile supplier, cleared up (he hopes) a
misconception about tax rebates, and sought to bring the new CFO on board with
a scheme for a client conference which could have great implications for the
third quarter (or, alternatively, could be a bit of a mess). He has had to stand in
the aisle of a crowded commuter bus for half
an hour each way and is now
walking back from his stop in the rain. He is thinking about how great it will be
finally to get home, pour himself a glass of wine, read the children a chapter of
the Famous Five,
kiss them good night, and sit down for a meal and some
civilized conversation with his most sympathetic ally and friend, his spouse. He
is at the end of his tether and inclined to feel (justifiably) sorry for himself.
Kirsten has meanwhile been home almost all day. After driving the children to
school (there was an ugly fight in the car over a pencil case),
she put away
breakfast, made the beds, took three work-related calls (her colleagues seem to
have a hard time remembering she’s not in the office on Thursdays or Fridays),
cleaned two bathrooms, vacuumed the house, and sorted out everyone’s summer
clothes. She arranged for a plumber to come and look at the taps, picked up the
dry cleaning and delivered a chair to be reupholstered, booked a dental checkup
for William, collected the children from school, prepared and fed them a
(healthy) snack, cajoled them into doing their homework, got supper ready, ran a
bath, and cleaned a set of ink stains off the living room floor. Now she is
thinking how great it will be finally to have Rabih come home and take over so
she can pour herself a glass of wine, read the children a chapter of the Famous
Five, kiss them good night, and sit down for a meal and some civilized
conversation with her most sympathetic ally and friend, her spouse. She is at the
end of her tether and inclined to feel (justifiably) sorry for herself.
When they at last find themselves alone in bed reading, Kirsten doesn’t want
to cause trouble, but there are a few things on her mind.
“Will you remember to iron the duvet covers tomorrow?” she asks without
raising her eyes from her book.
His stomach twists. He strives for patience. “It’s Friday,” he points out. “I
thought perhaps you could do that kind of thing on a Friday.”
Now she looks up. Her gaze is cold. “Gotcha, gotcha,” she says. “Domestic
stuff: my job. Never mind. Sorry I asked.” Back to her book.
These grating, scratching encounters can be more exhausting than flat-out
rage.
He thinks: I earn two-thirds of our income, possibly even more depending on
how
the total is calculated, but it seems I also do more than my fair share of
everything else. I’m made to feel as though my work were solely something I
was doing for me. In fact, it’s rarely satisfying and invariably stressful. I can’t be
expected, on top of it all, to take on the duvets. I do my bit: I took the children
swimming last weekend, and just now I loaded the dishwasher.
Deep down, I
want to be nurtured and protected. I’m furious.
And she thinks: Everyone seems to believe my two days at home are all about
“relaxing” and that I’m lucky to have this time. But this family wouldn’t hold
together for five minutes without all the things I get done in the background.
Everything is my responsibility. I long to take a break, but whenever I bring up
some chore I want to pass on, I’m made to feel I’m being unfair—so, in the end,
it seems easier to be quiet. There’s something wrong with the lights again, and I
will have to chase the electrician tomorrow. Deep down, I want to be nurtured
and protected. I’m furious.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
