I've written before about how, despite being in a same sex relationship, Fish and I all too often and all too frustratingly defer to traditional gender roles.
Our daughters are now four (Ivy), and 16 months (Luca), and a few weeks ago I returned to full time work after having crammed my always full-time job into four days (read: same job but 80% of the pay) for the last four years.
I carry no Mum guilt about this whatsoever.
I love my job and I'm proud that my girls get to grow up seeing me do something I'm both passionate about and really bloody good at.
We have excellent day care four days a week, and the other day they take turns spending time with their adoring Grandmas.
I'm also very lucky to work for a family friendly organisation that affords me the flexibility I need to juggle the working Mum life with very young kids.
Basically, the equivalent of doing the quickstep, backwards, while spinning plates, in heels, a little bit drunk from sleep deprivation, all while hoping a boob - or in my case a completely empty skin-sock - doesn't fall out along the way.
Anyway, this is a long lead in to tell you that shit's been pretty busy around here for the last few weeks. We decided to sell our house at auction at exactly the same time as I was returning to full time work. In December. When the whole f*cking world is a bit tired and over it (IT ME).
So I've spent the last three weeks following two little people around with a Chux and spray bottle in the inevitable event that the agent would spring a mid-week open home on us with three hours notice.
Needless to say, a few things have had to give around here, and proper grocery shopping was one of them. The state of our fridge and pantry this week was an embarrassment the scale of which I haven't endured since getting kicked off the stage by a very cranky Drag Queen at the Wickham on my 40th.
Fish is really good with a budget, and perfectly willing to endure the clusterfuck that is shopping at Aldi. Don't get me wrong, there are some deals to be had. But packing, unpacking, and repacking my trolley with the sense of urgency that a dozen beady eyes waiting for me to get outta the goddam way brings does not a good time make.
Figuring I had enough to do this week, I did a Coles online order for delivery BECAUSE CONVENIENCE.
Due to the fact that we'd run out of EVERYTHING it came in at $450, which I paid for on our shared account. Within 10 minutes I had a text from Fish saying "$450???"
Well you can imagine my response:
"I work full time, I have two young kids and an anxiety disorder to manage, I wasn't exactly buying myself pressies from Coles and YOU DO THE F*CKING SHOPPING THEN."
Something along those lines....
The next day, when we'd both had a sleep and were able to talk calmly, we quickly saw that the whole thing came down to poor communication. But the problem itself doesn't go away. There's a lot to do when you're ballroom dancing backwards, drunk, without a boob-sock spilling out, and we haven't quite mastered the art yet.
Soooo can anyone help a sister out? How do you divide 'emotional labour' in your house? What do you outsource? And which standards have you dropped so low they're approaching the Earth's core? I'd love to hear from you.
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