I’m not entirely surprised that I come undone, only that it takes a sewing machine in need of repairs to take me down. Oh, I don’t lose my marbles straight away; first I just fixate on the dusted-off machine, occasionally calling out for someone – my husband, my daughter – to fix it so that the school project can be commenced.
When Day Three of inaction becomes Day Eight and nothing is yet done, it occurs to me that the household, once again, is just waiting for “Mum to take care of it” and my annoyance and frustration finally bubble over.
Like a lot of Australian women, I identify as the backbone of my household’s invisible labour force. Unlike tangible household chores, which, yes, most of us dominate as well, I’m talking about the oft-unrecognised but invaluable work that keeps a household humming. It’s the mental load of planning, organising and anticipating everybody’s needs, the emotional support of keeping everyone calm and happy, and the day-to-day admin that prevents the wheels from falling off.
I know I’m far from alone in assuming this responsibility in the household; it’s a role disproportionately performed by women (according to the UN, if unpaid care work were given a monetary value, it would exceed 40 per cent of some countries’ GDPs), but I’m exhausted. So what happens if you, a Type A worker bee, suddenly down tools, reach for your inner teen and say, “Yeah, I’m just gonna let someone else deal with everything?” Well, we’re about to find out.
Week One
Hmm, with my 17-year-old about to sit her HSC trials and my younger daughter planning her 13th birthday sleepover party, this is the worst possible time for me to adopt a mule-like refusal to play along but that’s the thing about mental collapse: it does what it does.
My little one gives daily TEDx-style talks about specific presents, food and cakes for her party, and someone (i.e. me) needs to contact all the other parents with the details. I wait for someone else to pick up the thread, and when nothing happens after several days, I finally send a group message to at least lock in a date.
It feels so good to action something that I forget all about the challenge and buy my daughter a birthday present that I hide in the back of the wardrobe. I’m mortified. On the plus side, once I observe that the bulk of the “this needs to be done” conversations happen just after dinner, I begin an evening ritual of having very long, hot, Metallica-pounding baths and retreating to my room to watch documentaries about serial killers.
“You look relaxed,” says my husband. I don’t think he’s saying this as a compliment, but I could be projecting.
Week Two
Like most gen Xers, I’m responsible for the care of my elderly parents, but this week I have no qualms about ignoring check-in calls from their aged care providers or flicking their invoices to my brothers to deal with.
The girls, I’m informed, are running out of uniforms and I just shrug and sing, “I got 99 problems but the laundry ain’t one.” My husband stares at me curiously before undertaking the task and later I overhear my elder daughter ask him if “Mum’s having a mental health episode?”
I’m finding this whole experience more stressful than I’d anticipated. I can’t help ruminating on all the things – the dental check-ups, the HSC workshop bookings, the party essentials – that need to be happening right now. My husband and I share the household chores, and I know he’d do more if I asked, but I can’t help but be annoyed at his inability to just anticipate needs.
Week Three
My anxiety, while silent, is now through the roof, but I can’t deny that the brightest of blooms sprout from the most pungent of manure: my daughters have begun taking care of business themselves, exactly like ’90s teenagers.
When her request that I make her hair appointment falls on deaf ears, my eldest not only makes her own appointment, but even begins calling around universities to find out about their early entry schemes. “Look at me using the phone!” she beams.
Meanwhile, my younger daughter has pressed ahead with party planning, having organised everything from snacks and activities to the air mattresses she has borrowed. First I marvel, then I ponder writing a parenting guide titled You Do You Boo: the Joys of Sweet FA Parenting. It’s amazing what happens when you opt out.
Week Four
It’s the nibbled leaves of a toxic plant and a deathly ill cat that calls time on my experiment. I have no choice since no-one else notices that all of the leaves of the plant are now missing.
“How could you have missed it?” I scream in the car on the way to the vet. The fact that they have proves that no-one plays goalie quite like I do and for all my fury over the broken sewing machine, I’m desperate to once again assume the role.
I don’t just start picking up the slack, I fall off the wagon with gusto, scheduling appointments, calling schools and buying whitening products for the laundry. I know I’m not exactly setting a standard for womankind, but I’m so relieved to be back in control that I can’t possibly care.
The Result
Once the fires are put out, the smoke clears enough to see that the best way to get on top of invisible labour without feeling resentful is to assign practical tasks to everyone else.
My daughters are given roles – making school lunches or dinner, for example, or doing the laundry – while I opt out of non-essential communications. Is it perfect? No. I rush out and buy a new sewing machine for a start; but I’m happier and that counts for an awful lot.
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