United we stand, divided we fall apart

“You’re a lucky woman.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

How many times has an older person said that to you? Women over sixty watch your husband changing diapers, making dinner, or taking the pennies out of his pockets before missing the hamper. They practically genuflect. Retired men see your wife earning a living, carting the kids all over town, and address unwanted hair in skirts and high heels, rather than a housedress. Oh, how they wish they were in their forties again.

Back in the day, my mom did everything on her own. The only support she ever got was from covering her legs in Suran Wrap before standing at the sink to do dishes. My Nana was a workhorse, too. She did it all. Her favorite saying was, “Stick a broom up my arse so I can sweep as I go along.”

Modern moms and dads do have it easier than those who came before us. Yes, women sometimes have to lower toilet seats. Men have to put down their iPhones every once in a while and make eye contact. But both parents do a bit of everything, depending on the needs and time of day, and this evolved team effort benefits the entire family.

That’s why I’m always surprised when heading out of town for any length of time. Just as I’m wondering whether my yoga mat will fit in a carry-on, Husband starts falling apart

“Where is the peanut butter? When do I wake them in the morning? Is school still Monday through Friday? What do they eat for lunch? They’re telling me they only shower on Thursdays.”

Long pause.

“That doesn’t seem right,” he adds.

Is it because, no matter how evolved we are, we still have our primary roles and men feel overwhelmed when all is thrust upon them?

“Three hours in a car, Kate, and I’m about ready to kill someone. After-school activities should be illegal.”

I’m no better. I get out of town and feel strange just focusing on work. I’m used to juggling 4 or 5 tasks at once and feel strange when parenting and family is removed from my resume. What the hell am I going to do with myself all week?

The very first evening, I sat down to dinner with colleagues and panicked.

Note to self: Grownups do not need their food cut into bite-size pieces and don’t like being told to eat over their plate.

I was cleaning up after meetings until my boss mentioned they have people who do that. I constantly thought about my boys back home and wondered what I’d forgotten to tell them.

Thank God for emails. Husband and I can badger each other from 800 miles away.

Him: How does the oven work and where should I put the vodka?

Me: Don’t forget to include a fruit or vegetable with every meal. I’ll find out if you give them candy. Oldest talks.

Him: Wow. Woke up this morning completely surprised. House does not clean itself. Where do we keep the dishwashing liquid?

Me: Take off your glasses before you get into bed. The person who removes them every night and puts them away is in Atlanta for the week.

Him: We’ve run out of food I recognize. Where can I find something called “Mom’s Take-out Menu Drawer?”

I’m not going to lie. It helps to communicate this way. We get our answers almost immediately without cursing or dirty looks.

But I still can’t wait to get home.