BEING A HOUSEHUSBAND

Women’s Liberation invaded my house last year. A few weeks after our first child was born I bought my wife a present – a subscription to the Women’s Lib. Magazine “Spare Rib.” The first issue arrived when the baby was three months old. My wife read the magazine from cover to cover. She was very quiet. When she finished she put it down and stared at me.

“Right,” she said. “I’m going back to work when the baby is twelve months old.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It says in this magazine that women have an equal right to be the breadwinner.”

“I’m the breadwinner,” I reminded her. “We don’t need two.”

“Of course not. You can stay at home and look after the baby.”

Before I could protest, she picked up the telephone and began ringing all the new mothers that she knew. “Chris? Hello! Guess what? I’m going back to work when the baby’s 12 months old.”

She was on the phone for three hours. By the time she’d finished, half of Europe knew of her intentions. That evening the phone rang incessantly. A series of angry husbands shouted at me for causing trouble. All their wives wanted to be breadwinners too. They were stronger than me and said “No!”

My wife finally went back to work when the baby was 15 months old. My first day as a housewife (househusband?) was a disaster, but it began very quietly. I washed and dressed the baby, and we played for a while. Then I put her down for a nap. “Now I have two hours to do as I please,” I thought.

I went into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. I put some bread under the grill to make some toast. Then the telephone rang. I ran to pick it up because I didn’t want the noise to wake the baby. Unfortunately I tripped over some milk bottles and the baby woke up. I picked up the telephone and shouted “Hold on!” Then I ran into the baby’s room and rocked her back to sleep.

I picked up the phone again, but I noticed a horrible smell coming from the kitchen. “The toast!” − I yelled into the phone. I ran into the kitchen. It turned out that the smell was not burnt toast, it was a pair of oven gloves sitting on top of the grill. They were on fire. I threw them on the floor and began jumping on them to put the fire out. The baby woke up again – when I jump, I make a lot of noise. The doorbell rang as I was rocking her back to sleep again. I ran to the phone again. “Can I call you back?” I asked, and put the phone down without waiting for an answer. Then I remembered that I didn’t know who was calling me.

There was a brush salesman at the door. “Go away!” I shouted, and slammed the door in his face. I ran upstairs to check that the baby was asleep and the doorbell rang again. I raced downstairs, opened the door and screamed, “I thought I told you to go to hell!” But it was our friend. I almost began to cry.

He was marvelous. He came in, listened to my explanation and then went into the kitchen. He made me a cup of tea and cleaned up the mess on the floor. He swept up the broken glass from the milk bottles and gave me a cigarette. I smoked and then remembered that I am a non-smoker. I soon felt much better.

After a few days things became easier, but it’s hard work being a housewife. When you think the housework is finished there’s always something else to do. It’s a pity that in schools they don’t teach boys to cook and look after the house, because I am sure many men want to stay at home and let their wives go to work. Society expects women to be housewives, and men must learn the hard way – by experience.

(by Hank Groves)

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Date: 2016-01-14; view: 2053