Rebellious Praxis: This Is No Husband Bashing
Now that you’ve read the title, let’s move on.
I took this picture on the first day Mike went back to work after I had my first kid, Lou. I was utterly sleep-deprived. Together, we had tackled the first two weeks of her newborn life in a haze, our brain foggy with glee and giggles. A faint smell of urine and sweet shit lingered around the house. We had played “Perfect Day” from Lou Reed every morning in search of a tradition we could sustain throughout the years, hungry for some stability, if only on the stereo.
When he left that morning, his hair perfectly combed, dressed and clean, his body intact from the birth of our child, panic washed over me.
I had known anxiety before— in fact, she had been my very best friend for decades— but never to that aggravating degree. I didn’t welcome her the way we welcome Mara to tea. She was aggressive and almighty; I thought I might never recover from this encounter.
The envy for my husband’s rival life grew exponentially throughout the months that followed Lou’s birth: he was an adult having adults’ conversations. He could leave the house without fearing he’d drive the car into the Potomac* river. He didn’t wish to drown in the said river because he was already drowning at home.
I eventually got help and began to explore what it meant to feel guilty as a new mom— and why. Why was he able to sleep at night knowing the pile of dirty and wet towels would make the whole closet stink? Why wasn’t he responding immediately to our childcare providers about the Halloween party? Why wasn’t he feeling the urge to clean the whole house on the weekend and instead, dozed on the couch and rested? Why was I (seemingly) the only one carrying the mental load?
We got a therapist and, for the most part, worked things out. I refuse to say that I’m lucky that my husband is involved in our domestic affairs because I believe it should be a given.
But even with all the progress, I still carry most of the pressure to run the household. My relationship with “his” and “our” money— technically the same— is not simple.
So in the face of such bewilderment and frustration, I started an experiment.
If you follow me on Instagram, you might remember “pepper gate.” For a little over a week, I let a miniature pepper our daughters had left on the bookcase of the living room rot. I wondered if he’d see it— and throw it away— before I did.
Plot twist: he never did.
Some called it passive-aggressive, others applauded the experiment— I’m not the only one to conduct such research. Turns out that mothers of teenagers have a wide knowledge of the feeling.
Point is, much as this other lady experimented with “manspreading” in the metro, I decided to introduce small acts of what would be considered “rebellions against the domestic space.”
As long as it remained (fairly) hygienic and safe for all, I wanted to give my conditioning a chance to… “uncondition.”
For example, I didn’t put the recycling on the side of the road although I knew he’d forgotten to do it, two weeks in a row. I also don’t offer to help set the table when he cooks if I feel tired. I signed up for meditation classes on Sundays, even though it’s our only family day. I workout or shower on my own without asking first if that’s okay or if he needs help with the kids. I shrug when I’m working from home on Saturdays and hear him struggling on the other side of the door. Better: I put on my noise-canceling headphones.
Think about the complaints many of your female friends have against their husbands: I’m doing it.
Not in a spirit of revenge, but in one of embracing my agentivity. I take up space, my space, in a non-poking way.
Plot twist #2: to my surprise, my husband didn’t care. Quite the opposite: he encouraged me to do it more often.
Once again, I refuse to say that I’m lucky for this. What this experiment brought to light is the deep conditioning most of us (women, caregivers) have towards the domestic space and our believes-needs to help out at all costs; especially at the costs of our physical and mental health.
So try it out. If you feel frustrated, practice rebellious acts. Start small and see where it leads you.
I pray your partner will be as responsive as mine. If not, maybe it’s time to take the trash out.
Please let me know how it went.
In solidarity.
*Intrusive thoughts in new parents are common. Ninety percent of us will have them. We think of them as disorders when they impact our ability to function on a day-to-day basis. So if you ever thought of dropping your child at the bottom of the stairs and wondered if he’d bounce back: you’re normal. If this thought is crippling and impairs your care (for yourself and your child,) please reach out.