S teely-nerved and ramrod straight. Commanding. Virile. That was me. Lily-pale and all aquiver. Fragile. Vulnerable. That was him. Last week my husband and I bought a new house at auction. You know, said, the real estate agent later, when we were signing the paperwork, I rarely see a woman making the bids. Usually it's the man. We hadn't actually discussed it. It was just always going to be me. Fourteen years ago, guns blazing, I'd won our current house at auction with an equally aggressive strategy. I'd forgotten the feeling of all that coursing power, forgotten how much I'd liked it, how afterwards my husband had trembled leaf-ishly, and how protective I'd felt of him. We were childless then; both working full-time, eyes equally trained on our careers, but over the intervening years our roles have ripened into something far more traditional: he the breadwinner, me the homemaker, and so this time, I guess, it felt more pointed. It was nice to be seen, albeit briefly, as other than we appear.
The very next day, however, I was brought soundly back down to earth, was resolutely reminded of how dug-in the qualities and duties conventionally ascribed to men and women are. There were mortgage brokers, accountants, lawyers, bankers to deal with. And even though it was me who had rung, me who had instructed, one of the aforementioned professionals, and I won't specify which, because he was a very nice man who was doing his utmost to help us, persisted in contacting my husband regarding the required paperwork. I knew it was not something he'd done consciously, that the snub was not intentional, and he apologised when I pointed out his mistake, but, almost as if it was so ingrained that he couldn't help himself, he continued to do it.
When first I heard our Prime Minister was pregnant, I was pleased for her, followed quickly by panicked. Who would run our country? I'm ashamed to admit my fears were not allayed by the announcement she would be picking up the reins again, just six weeks after giving birth. When my babies were born I had no desire to, nor would I necessarily have been capable of, returning straight to work. But then, I realised, that's just me. I've never had the desire or the capability to run the country either.
The ideal modern relationship is supposedly equal, the gold standard an arrangement where the division of labour is not gendered but split squarely and fairly down the middle. Yet in my experience, and through observing the relationships, both gay and straight, of those dearest to me, it seldom works like this. Someone needs to run the show. Tears inevitably ensue if the two of you are jostling for the same position of chief bottle-washer. Disharmony inevitably flowers if one partner resents always being the one to remember to make the restaurant booking for the anniversary dinner.
I do the lion's share of the cooking and cleaning in our house, the inside jobs, so-called "women's work". I'm also responsible for the managing of finances, the administration of our lives, areas once a man would have taken care of. I do these things because I am at home the most. And because I am good at them. Outside, customarily a man's realm, I do more of the physical work, breaking down the dead palm fronds and hauling them to the bin, while my husband tends to the herb garden. The rest we outsource because I reckon I do enough, and because he, as he freely admits, hates it. Ultimately, I figure, it doesn't actually matter who does what, as long as you both recognise and accept this. As long as you both value the other's role. Herein, I've learnt, lies happiness.
