I think all women have a slight tendency to display the martyr gene. Particularly those of us who have children. After all, when you spend your life acting as an unpaid slave to a bunch of ingrates it’s really comforting to feel that at least the universe appreciates what a terrible life you lead.
I believe I have mentioned dirty dishes before in my ramblings, and I have to admit that this can be a bone of contention between me and the other inhabitants of my house – including the dog, who frequently fails to lick her bowl completely clean.
For the most part I suffer with resignation and dignity the piles of dirty dishes, reasoning that my husband works long enough hours to be spared the washing up, and the children are just too annoying to have around the kitchen.
But, when the landscaping season draws to a close, and our glorious breadwinner finds himself at a loose end, I feel that a little help might not go amiss. Particularly as he likes to spend his leisure hours in the kitchen experimenting with cured meats and pizza sauces – activities which seem to necessitate the use of every single bowl, pan and implement we own.
My usual MO is to assume that my husband will know when I want help, and then to sulk when I don’t get it. But I got smart and, when I left for work the other day, I pointed out the nice clean kitchen and begged him to wash up after himself. The concept didn’t receive quite the warm embrace I hoped for – in fact he found himelf completely unable to look me in the eye, instead muttering something about how he could go out to eat.
I returned later, weary and dispirited after a day of being shot down by prospective victims in my quest for child sponsors. Choosing the high ground, I averted my eyes from the counters piled high with the detritus of a day’s culinary adventures. In fact, I ignored them for three days, reasoning that he would give in any time now and man up to the task.
No such luck – I caved first, but I think next time I’ll see what happens if I try and go four days.