To The Mom That Doesn’t Want To Be Told She’s “Lucky” For Having a Husband That Helps Out Around The House

Alternative Title: To The Mom That Doesn’t Want What Her Husband Does To Be Called “Helping”

Third Rendition: To The Guy Who Feels He Should Receive Zero Praise For Changing Diapers (Yet Still Posts About It Incessantly On Social Media)

I added those alternative titles in there just so we don’t get hung up on any semantics and lose our critical audience.

Sometimes when I read things on the Internet, I worry for my own health. Like: can you hurt yourself when your eyes roll so far back into your head that you see your brain?

Is it possible to have a stroke from just looking at dumb things that show up in your Facebook feed?

Last week I saw a doozy of an article, written by a woman that had just had it UP TO HERE with people telling her she’s “lucky” for having a husband that helps out around the house.

Upon reading it, I almost swallowed my tongue in disgust.

Her premise, which does make sense on some level, was that their home is equally his home, just as their children are equally theirs. So taking care of all of it is, presumably, just as much of a responsibility of his as it is hers.

It sounded, frankly, like the most entitled and ungrateful thing I had ever read.

I constantly see people rally behind that sentiment among my own, personal friend’s list. Every Sarah, Janet, and Cindy that I know has – at one time or another – posted a lengthy Facebook rant about how it isn’t “helping” when it’s your own child’s laundry you are folding. [Insert another brain-viewing eye roll].

Joining with them are the handful of men I know from high school and college that now pat themselves high key hard on their own backs for doing the most basic of things, while hard core lecturing everyone else for acknowledging it.

The point is well taken at this juncture: men and women are supposed to be equals, the result of which is that the work should be divided just as that. Equally.

But it’s like we can’t just do things for or with each other and be grateful anymore without offending people.

Or lament your own situation without getting a lecture from some hippy carrying a Dude Bag (the hallmark of fragile masculinity, as I see it…carry the diapers in a Vons bag in the fucking glove compartment like the rest of us).

Now we have to ban words from our vocabulary when it comes to adult-y type things like cleaning the house and changing poopie diapers.

Proponents of this current trend towards word fascism argue that to say that a woman is “lucky” or “fortunate” because her husband “helps” is to say that the work is not just as much a responsibility his as it is hers.

Hives are breaking out on my arms just thinking about this.

Expressing gratitude or acknowledgement of a person’s given fortune does not in turn deny anything.

Initially – like years ago – I agreed with the sentiment. I thought for sure it would begin a change in paradigm when it comes to household responsibility if we start to reframe the way we say things. I would say things to my husband like “no, you aren’t helping me with the dishes, those are just as much your dishes as they are mine to wash.” Or at family parties I would say: “it isn’t babysitting when they are your own children.”

I can feel my stomach churning every time my Facebook soap box sermons show up in my “on this day” memories posts.

Guess what happened? Very little in the way of a paradigm shift.

Also, I sounded like a pretentious and ungrateful bitch.

This isn’t to say that my husband does much in the way of anything when it comes to our home and raising the kids worthy of praise anyway (there I go being an ungrateful bitch again, but really now…). You could call it helping or you could call it doing his fair share, the bottom line is he doesn’t do it.

And he would be in the statistical majority of men that just don’t. Banning words from the colloquial vocabulary doesn’t change that.

It is because I fly the ship solo when it comes to our home and kids that I feel I can say with some authority that women whose husbands do stuff around the house AND help with the kids, ALL while bringing in a decent salary AND also being good husbands (because these things are not, and will never be, mutually exclusive), need to accept the praise from others, and be grateful.

Honestly.

Be grateful.

Be grateful that you have a partner in life, not a roommate. A lot of women in this world have roommates and it fucking sucks. They would give anything to have a man that does dishes or picks the kids up from soccer practice, reliably, and with no consequences.

Recognize how fortunate you are that a man didn’t skate town when the pregnancy test came up positive, or that your husband didn’t come into hard times and now finds himself in prison, with you holding the bag for everything.

Be grateful that you didn’t wake up one day to a stranger in your bed. You woke up to the same man he’s always been, and he’s downstairs vacuuming.

Thank. You. Goes. A. Long. Way. In both directions.

Be grateful that you aren’t in the statistical majority of women who, even if you work full time and bring in an equal or greater income, still come home and do the majority of the house work and child rearing.

Be grateful if you are a stay at home mom and your husband still recognizes how much you really do every day, above and beyond what anyone could ever imagine.

And if you are a man that is taking on his equal share of the responsibility, take the compliment. You earned it. It does not hurt your ego or your place in the world one bit to smile and remember that you are a statistical anomaly.

It also does not change that statistic to lecture people about your role as Dad or post video after video after video with captions a mile long about how you do your part and don’t appreciate people implying that you shouldn’t be when they say you are a “good man.”

I guess the critical part of the equation is that this isn’t really a part of feeling like you really hit the jack pot as a woman, or like you are taking a stand as a man in the 21st century, so much as it is just being a good person in a mutually respecting relationship. Wife does laundry, husband thanks her. Husband changes diapers, wife say she’s fortunate to have a man like him.

Seems pretty basic.

Women unequivocally continue to be the main providers of care to the home and children, in spite of the word fascism growing over the years.

To deny the anomaly of a man that does his fair share is not only factually wrong, it is taking the situation and fortune of it for granted.

We live in a weird time. I say that for many many, many …many reasons. But this time it is because somehow we seem to have misunderstood what it is to change the way people view responsibility.

Banning words won’t change who our culture believes should run the household. Modeling it for our children over an incredibly long time, and acknowledging the ones who are doing things right along the way, will.

So, to the mom that doesn’t want to be told she’s “lucky” for having a husband that helps out around the house: suck it up. Stop being ungrateful, and take the comment in stride. You are fortunate. You are a rarity. Your husband is a real man. It’s OK to acknowledge that. I’m certain he will still put the dishes away and maybe change all the diapers that night too; do more than his half of the work because sometimes that’s just what people do.






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“Happy Humpday” and Other Terms That Weird Me Out (Part 1)

Today I was at Sports Authority, buying sweat socks and sunscreen for Pookie since tennis lessons resumed today, and one of the employees said to another employee that was heading out for the day: “have a good Humpday.”

I shuddered at having heard it – huummpppday.

My week has been full of these terms that either gross me out or make no sense, or in at least one case makes me go crazy because of the grammatical faux pas. Here they are, in no specific order:

Happy Humpday!

Why not start off with the obvious one, huummpppday. I get what it means: Wednesday is the middle of the week – the hump, you might say – and once Wednesday is over, the theory is that the week should be smooth sailing from there.

Okay, but I have never had normal work week-type schedules, at least since I graduated from high school. When I went to college, Wednesday was my Friday. When I worked in politics, there was no such thing as a day off. When I went to graduate school I never knew what day or time it was, I only knew grading and writing papers and drinking more and more Diet Coke. After graduate school … well, you know what I do now. Besides meandering around town finding bozos and weirdos to report to you fine, faithful blog followers, I homeschool and get a healthy dose of The Simpsons on DVD and red wine in my nightly binges of those, my two favorite things.

Since my husband works just about all the time, Wednesday has no significance on that front either, so I suppose the “hump” part of humpday just makes me think of people going home and doing it, actually dry humping (because that is when you actually use the term huummp). It also reminds me of the time my first California boyfriend’s dad referred to what he was going to do with his wife as “a’ humpin’ and a’ bumpin’.” He had no teeth and his wife smoked two packs of Marlboros a day. A horrifying thought, I know.

“…my lady parts…”

Yesterday, as my Trailer Trash Mom made her way out of our lives again, she sealed the deal that I will not be returning her phone calls anymore when she said the following to me, verbatim:

“Heather … I left the rags I used to watch my lady parts drying on the side of the bathtub. No time for showering, but my man likes it clean!”

I will pause for you all to get your buckets and vomit everything in your guts.

I’ve heard people say “…my lady parts…” before and, quite frankly, it grosses me out. First and foremost, who needs to talk about them? I can’t remember the last time I was at a party and thought about talking about what’s going on in my crotch. And even if I did, I wouldn’t call them “…my lady parts…” I would just call them like they are. “Yeah, I left my vaginal rags on your bathtub…” and “…I’m wearing my bra top again and have been snacking all day – who knows what treasures will spill out of my boob cracks when I get ready for bed!”

“I know, right?”

WHAT THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF THE ‘RIGHT?’!!! No seriously. Every person that says this has to know that they are not speaking in grammatically correct fashion. And I know how the Internet has made people grammar Nazis and all, with correcting people on ‘their’ versus ‘there’ versus ‘they’re’ like it even fucking matters; so why are so many people getting away with this stupidity?!

I know, right?

Today I heard a librarian – A LIBRARIAN!!!!! – say this four times in the same sentence. And the sentence was really long and all about how she just suddenly became lactose intolerant to milk and even ice cream! To THINK that you would have a problem with ice cream as a lactose intolerant individual when ice cream is made of milk!!

This brings up a little side thought: every time I think I have no shred of faith left in humanity, I witness something like this. The I know, right? does not help this at all.

Ladies Night!!

Maybe it is the term “lady” that I don’t like, because “Ladies Night!!” is weird to me too. This could be for two reasons:

(1) Every ladies night I’ve ever been on has involved all of us dressing up like glaringly obvious whores who have boyfriends or husbands, so are clearly “off the market” but still want to be ogled for our untouchables; followed by all of us parading our skanky asses around some bar trying to get people’s attention. I don’t mind going out with friends sometimes, but in all seriousness why can’t we just get all hot and shit but stay home and watch movies and get plowed on cheap wine?

or, the other possibility is that

(2) I can’t fucking stand this song:

EPIC

This one might be more of a pet peeve. Why is everything epic now? Why is it not worth doing if “epic” is not attached to it? Why must everything be so exciting and wonderful and over the top all the time?

What weirds me out about the word epic is that it seems to make it more socially acceptable to talk about things people wouldn’t normally talk about.

“Yeah, dude, I just ate an epic cheesy crunch gordita at Taco Bell and it was a real gut-buster.”

“Wow, man, that is so epic.”

“I’m going to have to go take an epic dump before my date tonight. I want to make sure it’s epic and I don’t need any gordita sliding out the ol’ a-hole while we’re a’ humpin’ and a’ bumpin’, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Oh brah, that would be so epic if your gordita flew out your ass while she was cleaning the rims!”

See what I think people who use the term “epic” so fluently are like? They also don’t really seem to actually know what the word means, since it is used in a variety of contexts.

I’m actually horrified with the crudity with which I have taken this one, so I think I will stop there. For now, that is. Comment terms that weird you out and they might be featured in Part 2 … once I’ve had time to clean up the EPIC trail of cheesy gordita crunch vomit I’ve spewed everywhere from the thought of my own words and ideas presented in this blog. I know, right?