I love housework.
Friday is housework day, and I look forward to it. There’s nothing better than tackling the week’s grime, getting to grips with all the dirt and mess in your environment that has been annoying you since Monday but which you were too busy to do anything about. I take a great deal of satisfaction from clean carpets, dust free surfaces and the smell of cleaning agents hanging in the air.
I even enjoy the laborious tasks like stripping beds, turning mattresses, and replacing bedding. What keeps me motivated is the gorgeous anticipation of the moment we slip dog-tired from a long week into smooth, fresh sheets. The Friday night sleep must be the sweetest sleep of all.
This is all hard work, but it is toil with a pay-off. Even scrubbing out the ring of dead skin from the inside of the bath offers a grim satisfaction when everything is left sparkling and inviting afterwards. In fact, the more unpleasant the task, the greater the resulting reward.
Housework is hard work. I don’t think enough men have acknowledged the back-breaking reality of keeping house, because it has always traditionally been viewed as women’s work. In the old-fashioned masculine view the man is the breadwinner and his work, which occurs elsewhere, is more important than that which takes place in his own home.
A man of my father’s generation left the house in the morning and when he returned in the evening expected his home to be clean and his dinner awaiting him on the table. His home was his refuge from work – it was where he rested. The whole business of how the home was kept clean and pleasant was as much a mystery to him as how the food he had eaten was prepared.
For my part, I was an infant in a household of women and part of a wider family that was an undeclared matriarchy. The men may have been nominally in charge, but it was the women who controlled the purse strings and called the shots. I remember being impressed by my grandmother’s arms, which seemed to be made of old rope and were incredibly strong, the result of a marriage spent scrubbing and polishing before modern appliances made her work a little easier.
So, it seems natural to me that I do my bit around the house, both cleaning and cooking. I believe a modern marriage, where both partners are likely to be in paid employment, depends upon the equal sharing of housework. And I want my son to see that both of his parents contribute to the successful running of the household, and that cleaning is a man’s work every bit as much as it is a woman’s.
It has been suggested to me that we could employ a cleaner, which would take much of this toil away from us, but I bridle at the thought. My house becomes my home when I clean. It is how I familiarize myself with its every corner, when I notice changes to its fabric – the damp patch here and the flaking plaster there. Were I to pass these responsibilities on to a stranger, I would feel that I no longer controlled my environment. It would become just a space I inhabit, not a place I am responsible for. It is the difference between owning a property and making a home.
Friday is cleaning day, but it is also the day I demonstrate my commitment to my family and my care for my home. It is, ultimately, an expression of the love I have for them.
Don't Burst My Bubble 