What do Housewives do all day?

I just don’t know what my husband does all day. He leaves the house just as I go to take the kids to school. The worst possible time to depart. If he lingered longer he’d be able to watch the twins (5 in Feb) while I dropped over the other three. Two, to Erstwhile Elementary and our oldest son to Flintstone Valley Middle School. (Apt nomenclature but not their real titles.)

We live in Aspirational California in a good school district. Here it’s more a case of drone-parenting than helicopter parenting. Parents don’t hover so much as parent via e-commerce these days. The latest toy delivered direct to your door! We have seven day a week postal delivery. Amazon will in the not to far distant future drone goods to our door. Parents drop money at will in cherished offsprings’ paypal accounts to keep them entertained. Our two oldest have paypal accounts which we credit with their pocket money. When they get low, they chorus, “Can I have a dollar in my Paypal account Dad”?

If my husband left for work earlier he wouldn’t be able to criticize my childcare decisions of letting my 4th Grader (play Mineraft) watch the twins, while I drive my eldest son to school. Rather than being useful, Hubby is generally underfoot at the most rushed part of the morning routine and often gives me the side-eye while I yell ask rhetorical questions. “Why didn’t you get up when first asked”? “Why didn’t you do your homework last night”? All the while I am brandishing a hairbrush at the kids, impotently. And at this thought, I return the unfavorable glances to hubby. All the stress in my life AKA, Parenthood is a direct result of the lack of said impotency. It’s true. Bald men have more kids. And back in the day, no-one told me to run from the light (reflected by a shiny bald pate).
I’m also simmering over the attention to detail over hubby’s morning routine. Unbelievable. He’s worked out, meditated, had a phone meeting, has another on the way to catch BART into san Francisco. And darned if he hasn’t made himself a coffee in a take-out cup to go. How cute.

A great coffee machine for the home barista!

Whereas I, I! got up two hours before hubby and I’m nowhere as prepared for the day. I am ashamed to say I slept in my clothes.  PyjamaGate?

• Uk Headmistress Kate Chisholm sparked a furor recently after issuing a letter hightlighting the increased incidence of parents escorting (nobby Brit term for dropping the brats to school) in pyjamas. And slippers. Classsy! Darned sloppy Gen X of which I am a member. It’s all Kurt Cobain‘s fault. On news of his untimely demise at the age of 27,  a cohort of Gen X decided it was a good idea to wear underwear as outerwear in our college years. It was the era of Grunge. Both the music, and the fashion reflected a tilt to apathy and underachievement. Naturally we are reclaiming this trend in our parenting years. Kate Chisholm can p*ss off. Sometimes we don’t even wear underwear. Panties aren’t flattering after the age of 27. Whereas Commando ALWAYS rocks comfort with the bonus of the invisible panty line! And with mood lighting and no pants we’re more confident than any 20 year old!
• Possibly our generation never grew up. We embraced responsibility, had children, but still grapple with being censored for our fashion choices by Conservative authority. To hell with that!
• We’re still alive!

Forget pyjamas. My kids may have slept in their clothes. I try not to think about this possibility. Hubby does the evening shift so if the kids bound out of the bedroom in the morning fully dressed I try not to recall what they wore yesterday. This way I never have to confront the possibility they may have slept in their clothes.  I am deeply suspicious that I never have pyjamas in the laundry but I don’t dwell on this. they look great folded away in the closet. that’s all that counts.

I think to myself, I’ll do the school drop off and come back for a leisurely shower. Maybe  even a bath. Who am I kidding?

I’ll run a wash cloth over and change from my slept-in black leggings to recently washed black leggings. And then I’ll be busy all day combining housework, with social media (it’s important), with my passion (writing) with growing a stream of passive income. Again, important. “A women must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”, Virginia Woolf.

And men are unreliable. I just don’t know what my husband does all day. I know I’m busy. It’s totally obvious to my husband on his return that I’ve been busy all day. For one, the house is a mess and I haven’t had enough time to shower, Even! But Hubby? He leaves nonchalantly in the mid-morning and returns after I’ve done a full day of work, and fed the kids innumerable times before declaring the kitchen closed. My husband returns home without so much of a brace of rabbits and nary a plucked pheasant in sight. There’s no shit on his Italian shoes. No singe marks on his suit or any evidence he’s fought with the elements to support his family of seven.

What does he do all day!