There are four words that when spoken to me incite my most aggressive impulses. I become fiery and almost hostile. It happens fairly regularly and yet, I’m still shocked when I hear it.
Tonight, as the contractor was leaving the house, he said this:
Is your husband around?
That’s it. Is your husband around? What could be so terrible about that little sentence?
Well, the reason I become irate is pretty simple really. I’m a smart woman who can handle just about anything my husband can handle around the house. In fact, generally I’m the one who fixes something when it’s broken. If I can’t fix it, I’m the one who finds, contacts and schedules the work person. I pay the house bills and arranged for the mortgage. And yet, everyone asks if my husband is around.
Just the other day the mortgage company called and asked for Mr. Pearlman even though both of our names are on the loan. Why not just ask for Mr. or Mrs. Pearlman? No one thinks Mrs. (actually, it’s Dr.) Pearlman can handle any of the “big” decisions for the family. The solar company wouldn’t even come to the house if my husband wasn’t going to be there (yes, they lost my business).
Apparently, I am not qualified to make decisions about, basically anything. I couldn’t possibly understand how to turn the water off to the house. I probably wouldn’t be able to discuss the fee for the gardener to do an additional job in the yard even though I am the person discussing it with him. I likely couldn’t understand the tricky financial lingo from the bank. I’m the one who has purchased all of our cars and yet every car salesman talks to my husband upon arrival. That all infuriates me on so many levels.
My husband does a lot around the house and raising the kids. He does all the laundry, cleans all the dishes, runs to the supermarket, takes the cars in for service, shuttles the kids endlessly, talks to coaches and teachers, arranges pick up and so much more. He’s a 50% parent, and I’m a lucky lady. He also takes care of mice and bugs, because I cannot do that (although I’m great at hiring the exterminator). Clearly, we dodge typical gender roles. And that tickles me. My dad taught me to fix things. When we bought our first house, he bought me a drill, and I adore that drill. I used it recently to hang my son’s shelves. My mom taught me how to ask for a supervisor and write a letter to speak my mind. My grandmother loves to tell the story of how she acted as the general contractor in the 1950s to build her house from scratch.
I grew up wanting to be a woman who can do just about anything if I set my mind to it. And usually I believe I can. But every time someone asks for my husband all of my effort and education and time is relegated insignificant. Actually, I become insignificant. If mothers are taking on most of the emotional labor for the family, exactly when are we going to get credit for that? I’m waiting, not so patiently.