Half-year of the hausfrau

PLENTY OF FEMINIST WRITING is churned out by people actively engaged in an area of expertise/field of work. As a therapist, educator and social worker, I have always had plenty to say, a stand to take and debates to relish. (Note: I am NOT saying working folks are the only ones with opinions of value!) But for the past 6 months, I was none of these. I wasn’t even (hushed whisper) a working woman. I was, to put it plainly, a hausfrau, and this is an account of my experience.

It happened the usual way. Marriage, partner’s transfer and move abroad. We were going to live in the United States, a country I was very familiar with, had lived in before and was acclimatized to. I knew it was only a matter of time before I re-entered the workforce. Having worked non-stop—often two jobs/businesses simultaneously—for the past decade, I was suddenly faced with swathes of time and the freedom to stare into space if I so chose. As a part of me watched from the sidelines, the job-juggling girl I once knew threw herself headlong into home decoration, baking and the maintenance of an immaculate home.

I will come right out and say it. I loved every minute. No miserable Mondays, time to explore my nesting side and the incredible luxury of fussing over cushions and bed linen just because I could. From whipping up batches of brownies to color-coordinating the tableware, running errands at a leisurely pace and greeting my spouse with an elaborate, freshly-cooked meal each evening, I did all the things women have sought to break free from in decades past. And yet, there I was, a self-confessed feminist, trying to shush her cognitive dissonance by convincing herself it was all a temporary romp in the park.

The first signs of discomfort arose when I had to fill in forms asking me what I did for a living. Homemaker, I’d write, a trifle defiantly, not too pleased with my answer. I was the flexi-time lady, the on-call chauffeur, the go-shopping-at-a-whim buddy, the One Who Did Nothing. And yet I know full well, from my own experience and that of the women in my family, the solid work it takes to run a well-maintained, smoothly-functioning home. Upkeep is akin to a garden—unless you’re constantly weeding, it’s going to overwhelm you. Then what was it, that feeling, the twinge I felt spending money not earned by me, the knowledge that I could enjoy this freedom because my partner worked to put bread on the table?

I put it down to upbringing, role models and childhood narratives. To years of seeing a working mother and grandmother, of being goaded toward financial independence by my stay-at-home grandmother, of growing up hearing that marriage could wait, I needed to carve out a career first, of being firmly told that “sitting home” was not why I was educated and that with my two Master’s degrees I should jolly well step out and make myself useful to the world.

Should I be hating this, would it be terrible if this state of affairs were to go on forever, I’d ask myself, a trifle alarmed at how much I was enjoying the change of pace.  I felt no boredom, I always had tasks to accomplish, and nothing gave me greater pleasure than snatching some hours of reading time on the couch, with nowhere to go unless I wanted to. Perhaps I reveled in it because I knew it was a temporary situation.  It is unthinkable to me that I remain unemployed, even as I acknowledge that there is absolutely nothing “wrong” with the idea. I have always respected the work of homemakers, now even more so. But clearly some part of me still believes that those working outside the home are worthier.

So as I get back to work next week and my cognitive dissonance fades away, to be replaced with Monday morning blues, rush hour traffic and a less-than-tidy home, I hope I can hunker down and stare my biases in the face, so the next time I switch roles, I am freer of labels and sexist baggage and can embrace another aspect of myself more willingly.