When I was growing up, I lived in a house of three generations of women.
There was my nanna, my mum, my sister and I.
And my dad.
We women were the majority. I never heard my dad complain about it, or make any derogatory comments about women. I never even thought about it.
Mind you, we all were expected to maintain dad’s position as Head of the Household, so he didn’t really have much to complain about.
When I left home and went to university, I spent my first year living in the female block of my hall of residence. After uni, I moved back home and lived in a shared house – with two other women.
I met my partner around then.
We lived at opposite ends of the same street.
Whenever he showed tendencies toward laddishness (watching football, having excessively smelly feet, being too rowdy/drunk/irritating), it was a simple matter to just send him home.
Eventually we moved in together. As equals.
But recently lad has become a lad, rather than just a little’un, And consequently, I find myself in the minority at home.
I haven’t really felt it until recently. I suppose because before, really, I was still in the majority. Two parents, one child.
But I am feeling it now.
Football was on the television again last night. It was also on the night before. After lad finished playing Fifa on his recently-acquired (a gift from a friend) Playstation.
I hate football. Always have.
I have always expected my man to pull his weight in the housework stakes and generally, he has done so.
But now that I work from home, I find that has also changed.
However much I ask / request / nag, I find myself responsible for the housework. Cleaning toilets that I have not dirtied. Washing sports kit that I do not use. Spending weekends alone, whilst the boys are at the football.
I admit, I am finding being in the minority is taking some getting used to. I have come late to it.
But I persevere in my nagging, whilst working on cultivating my tolerance of boyish things.
And when it all gets too much…
Then, I escape into my florals. ♥
Coming from a home where great big juicy emotional yelling was the order of the day on the part of the female parent, and strictly logical and unemotional rationality on the part of the male parent, I’d say you didn’t have it too bad… I swore a vow early in life I’d never nag, having seen its corrosive effects, and I’ve stuck to my guns. Luckily I’m married to a treasure who is easily guilted out by the sight of me hauling out full dustbins… I’m at home all day too, but my position is that he’s making the money, I’m spending it and the least I can do is wash his clothes, cook his meals and keep the house tidy!
When I say persevere in my nagging, I mean, of course, that I continue to try to communicate my displeasure at certain habits with my man and my boy. Particularly the one that sprays liberally around the toilet like a tomcat.
Just went into the living room… football on telly again. Another night in the kitchen for me then.
Oh, eeuw. You have my sympathies. I admit I’m not keen on the way boots, sandals and garden clogs migrate indoors all by themselves, every day….
I know where you’re coming from! Working from home myself, I HAVE to get out and catch up with the girls. Quilting days/evenings and knit and natter keep me sane!