No Numbskull
The division of labor in my marriage was so streamlined I could write a book about efficiency in wedlock. I didn’t even think about grocery shopping or getting the trash to the dump. My husband never worried about bank statements, insurance, or mowing the lawn. We trusted the other to just handle things.
But since my darling passed away, all the chores are mine. And I experience “learning moments,” wherein I come to understand the rationale for what I previously considered my husband’s idiosyncrasies. Things I found annoying—until I started doing them, too.
I thought he was such a fuss-budget when he was constantly skimming the solids from the milk pot he had steaming at dawn for our morning cafe-au-lait. He’d peel them off the pot. Off the ladle. Off the spoon rest. Why all the fuss?
Now I have to make my own coffee—and guess what? I am continually dropping clumps of cooked milk into the compost bin, so they don’t offend my palate mid-swallow or create a dishwashing disaster.
I used to think my husband was a shopaholic. Or maybe just spent a lot of time shopping to postpone yard work. But now I must run all the errands. I travel to multiple stores to get everything on the list. And sometimes a necessary item is out of stock on Monday, requiring I return on Tuesday. My idea of one-stop shopping was a myth. Shopping requires finesse.
My sweetie did most of the cooking—because he wanted to. He said cooking relaxed him. That was fine with me. I don’t find it relaxing in the least. I need an array of timers to keep me from burning things. And spending a couple of hours cooking a lovely meal that gets consumed in twenty minutes is not my idea of tranquility. So, I was grateful he cooked. But that didn’t keep me from wanting to tweak his methods—telling him to get the oil hotter before putting the fish in the pan or suggesting he use one of my timers to monitor the main course in the oven.
Now, nobody cooks. If it ain’t salad in a box, I don’t eat it. Maybe if I had performed “dinner duty” more often, I would either enjoy cooking now, or at least have kept my subtle swipes off his culinary efforts and out of my memory.
It occurs to me—a day late and a dollar short— that couples who have their household duties defined clearly and efficiently, should trade tasks every once in awhile. Those who learn the intricacies of what their partners deal with are less apt to find themselves thinking, “I could do it better.”
I do wish that, just once, I’d put my husband on the riding mower so he would experience the machine’s inability to get up the last few feet of the steep incline that is our front lawn. I always sensed the man thought I was pulling his leg and leaving him too much weed-eating—which was his domain.
And shortly after he passed away, I wished I had taken the garbage to the dump under his tutelage. The trash had to pile up before I found the courage to find the dump on my own.
This trading of places need not last long. Just time enough to understand the demands the other faces. Then if your partner disappears, you can handle things. And you’re not left apologizing after the fact: “Now I see you weren’t a numbskull after all.”