The Mental Load

A comic strip entitled “You Should’ve Asked” has been doing the rounds of social media; I happened upon it on my FaceBook feed a couple of weeks ago. Since then, it has been playing on my mind.

The basic thesis is that even where the man and woman in a domestic partnership do an equal amount of household tasks, the mental load of keeping track of those tasks – the managerial aspect of running a household – falls unevenly on the woman. This means that in practice the woman ends up bearing significantly greater load, even if (and for many couples that’s a big “if”) the hours spent actively undertaking domestic duties are roughly equal.

I don’t doubt for a moment that this is often the case, including in our household, where I bear the majority of this “mental load”. What has been turning around in my mind has been why that fact doesn’t bother me.

I’ve previously mentioned that I have a husband who genuinely and unquestioningly bears an equal load of household duties, including child rearing. But for the most part I am the one who keeps the lists, makes sure bills are paid, contacts services etc. And I certainly am familiar with the time and energy that role demands. Yet it very rarely bothers me.

Partly I think that my ease with the situation derives from how it developed in our relationship. I don’t believe for a moment that it was because I am the wife. I’m the one with a compulsive need for lists and who has to feel in control. It’s just my personality. I’m also the one whose job lends itself more to dealing with administration; my husband just doesn’t get the opportunity to get on the phone or duck out to run a quick errand the way I can in my desk job.

More than those practicalities, however, is the fact that when I say my husband does an equal load, I am taking that mental load into account. I have certain chores that I deal with, in particular, the clothes washing and ironing that my husband can never seem to get his head around. Aside from that, he does a considerable proportion of the regular tasks, as well as the ad hoc tasks that I ask him to deal with when they pop up on my lists. So in effect, our approach does acknowledge the strip’s point that like a manager in an office setting, the manager of the household should do less of the other tasks to balance that load.

I doubt that a healthy home life should be premised on a formal division of management and labour in household tasks, and ours certainly isn’t, but as long as the division of labour takes into account the mental load, there is no problem with that falling on one partner (even if that  partner is the woman). In fact, I’d say that it would be more difficult to divide up that household management function between two, as it requires oversight and coordination that best sits with one person.

On the other hand, if this principle is accepted, the title of the comic strip needs to be questioned. I rarely criticise my husband for not asking, because it is accepted that I’m the one who keeps track and I will say when something needs to be done. As long as he is happy to step up when asked, and the overall load (taking into account management and administration) is roughly balanced, then I have no cause for complaint.

The loneliness and togetherness of pregnancy

Pregnancy is a funny business in so many different ways.

I won’t get started on skin discolouration the colour of 5-day old bruises, other people’s belief that you are no longer able to carry anything, or the alien sensation of having another person lodge their fist between your diaphragm and your ribcage.

I want to talk about the fundamental contradiction at the heart of the experience of being one mind and two bodies.

I’ve never felt lonelier in my life than during my pregnancies, particularly my first. (I’ve previously mentioned how much less stressful things are second time around.) The loneliness isn’t there all the time, and not in a general way, but specific moments where I felt, more than ever before or since, that I was on my own. Moments such as realising that you haven’t noticed the baby move all morning. Or an alarming cramping sets its claws into your lower abdomen in the middle of the night. Or you feel unwell and panic that it’s listeria poisoning or parvovirus or some other heinous disease while on the other hand suspecting the true cause is hypochondria.

These are times when the only person who can make a judgment is you; there is no one to ask for advice. You can rely only on what you feel inside, and your ‘maternal instincts’ (whatever they are). Is your perception that the baby isn’t moving just because you’ve been busy – or should you call the obstetrician? Or the hospital? No one else can help you make that call. And the sense of responsibility attached to making the right decision is incredibly isolating.

And yet, for all that, during the 9 or so months of pregnancy, you are literally never alone. An increasingly active individual is with you constantly, eating with you, listening with you, moving with you, probably feeling stressed out right along with you. It goes without saying that this company is nothing like being with another person with a separate body and mind, but nevertheless, it can be a comfort and a source of strength.

You may feel alone from time to time, but you are always together.

Newborn worries, take two

Preparing for the arrival of my first baby, I worried about, well, everything. I’ve always been slightly terrified of babies, and to this day, prefer not to have too much to do with babies that aren’t my own. I’m the one standing at a safe distance when someone brings their latest progeny into the office for display. I’m also an only child who grew up free of exposure to many babies. As a result, I entered parenthood with absolutely no idea what I was doing, and I don’t do well with that level of uncertainty. So I worried. Is she feeding properly? Can she breathe properly? Is she too cold? Too hot? When should we start solids? Is this fever worthy of a trip to the hospital or will they laugh me out of the triage line? And so on and on.

I learned – and continue to learn – so very much from my first baby. So many of the things I was worried about have been put solidly in perspective. Nevertheless, two months away from the arrival of baby number two, there are other concerns on my mind. How will my toddler, so excited right now about the baby in Mummy’s tummy, actually react to the reality of a baby sucking up her parents’ attention? What on earth will happen with my toddler in the middle of the night when the baby wakes for a feed or is screaming for no reason? How will I keep my cool when my toddler wakes the baby I’ve finally, finally got down for a nap by squealing madly around the house, as she is wont to do?

So yes, there are concerns circling around my mind. And yet the worrying is different. Less, both in volume and intensity. I put that down to the most valuable lesson I learned with my first baby: whatever challenge we face, we will be able to find a way through it.

There is always a solution, even if that solution is nothing more than time and patience. The realisation that no one tiny decision is likely to change the face of my child’s life, lifts an incredible amount of pressure. The trite consolation “this too shall pass”, so difficult to buy when you’re in the trenches early on with your first baby, with experience and hindsight becomes an aphorism that sinks deep into your soul.

I daresay some worries are unavoidable in the lead up to the seismic shock the arrival of a new baby causes in a family’s life. But, unlike last time, those worries are not what is keeping me up at night (that would be the aches, pains and enforced changes to sleeping position). They are much more mellow, softened by a quiet confidence.

Yes, I know we will be pushed to breaking. I also know we will get through it. Individually and as a family. Because that’s just what you do, because there is no other option, and that makes it all fine, whatever it is you have to do to muddle through.

Barring a disaster that is (hopefully) extremely unlikely, we will surmount whatever challenges the arrival of our second child throws at us. We will find a way.

Princess Anna for President

Until recently, all I knew of the film Frozen was what I had overheard in the media and from friends with kids in the relevant age group. In fact, I assiduously avoided it, in anticipation of over-exposure once my daughter was old enough to get into it.

The impressions I nevertheless gained were consistent: ice blue dress, blonde bombshell lead, “Let It Go”, the name Elsa.

A few weeks ago, I finally watched it. And I was floored. Even as I listened to my daughter repeatedly asking “Where’s Elsa?”, I realised that Elsa isn’t actually the main character. Media darling and fan favourite she may be, but in terms of narrative impact and characterisation, she’s an also-ran.

It is abundantly clear that Anna is the real star of the show: it is her journey, her belief, her realisations on which the film turns; she is the one with true power, even if she doesn’t have the showy magic.

From the song “For the First Time in Forever”, Frozen

Anna is the one with verve, attitude and fight; she’s not the boss, but she acts as if she should be. Why is she so underrated?

I mentioned this to a friend, who suggested it is as simple as Elsa being the blonde, “pretty” one, and she was probably right, as nauseating as that is.

Elsa has “the look”. But Anna has the substance, and I hope, with time, to teach my daughter to appreciate Anna’s character over Elsa’s star power – and to become a true Anna fan.

(And I’m sorry, Frozen fans, but The Lion King is still the best.)

 

Baking truths

Toddlers force us to face uncomfortable truths in life and in baking

My husband’s birthday was this weekend just past. It wasn’t a major milestone, we didn’t do anything much to celebrate, but I thought I’d bake for him. And when I say bake, I mean cake.

The “About” page on this site mentions bread baking specifically, and there’s a reason for that. I’m pretty good with bread, most of the time. I’m comfortable with it, and I enjoy experimenting.

Cake – and other sweet baked goodies – not so much.

During the week, I baked a polenta, almond and lemon cake. My toddler, having been promised cake after dinner, whined for her cake the whole way through the meal. So we gave her some cake. She tasted it, said “yuk”, and turned it into a fine crumb, before going back to her broccolini and corn on the cob. I’d achieved something remarkable: the cake that makes toddlers eat broccoli. (In fairness to myself, the cake was delicious, just a bit adult.)

On Saturday, having a few overripe bananas hanging around, I decided banana bread should more widely acceptable to the household. All kids love banana bread, right? Well, after struggling with a recipe that included a critical typographical error, wrestling the cake batter back from the brink by sheer force of will and KitchenAid, I finally presented my banana bread to my toddler.

She ate all the walnut pieces and left the cake.

If there is any certified truth in life, it would seem to be a toddler’s reaction to sweet baked goods (as opposed to unillustrated picture book texts). My husband seemed happy enough with what I’d produced, but my baking confidence, already delicate, has taken a bruising.

Nonetheless, I got back on the horse on Sunday and tackled an apple and raspberry strudel. Again, I had a stressful time with the dough, which was unmanageably wet until I poured a third again more flour into it. Then the thing split wide open along its side while baking.

It was slightly overbaked (apparently the splitting is a sign of that) but we enjoyed it. That’s my husband and I, by the way. My toddler won’t be getting any.

I can’t handle that much truth.