Mother on Strike!

This Mom has gone on strike.

Actually, I got the idea from my Advanced Sewing teacher. I was talking to my friend, Cherylene (who is a mom of five) about how frustrated I've been with the housework. This semester has seemed more difficult than last semester to begin with; and on top of that, I can't do my homework at home without doing two hours of housework first just so I'll have space to do the homework. Toward the end of class Helen, the teacher, often sits and chats with us older ladies in the class as we work. She told me that one of her neighbors put a sign in the yard, "The mother of this house is on strike!" We all laughed.

Fast-forward to Thursday, March 9. I was sick and headachey all day, and I had my evening class to go to. And I had to take the bus besides, which meant I had to rush to get out of the house, leave just as dinner was ready to eat, and leave the house in rather a state (the house and I were both in a state). I told all the kids who were within earshot that after dinner they needed to clean the kitchen and the living room. I said this to them twice. As I ran to the bus- stop I remembered that we had a package of cookies on top of the fridge that the kids had been coveting. So I called the house, and told Lindsey that after they cleaned the kitchen and living room they could have that package of cookies. And then, for good measure, I texted Michael and told him that after dinner the kids all needed to clean the kitchen and living room and after the rooms were clean they could all have the cookies. I think I made myself perfectly clear.

When I got home at 10:35 that night I was tired and starving, so at first I didn't completely notice the state of things. I did see that the dinner dishes had been washed—yay, kids! But after I had my very late dinner I saw that the stove had dried up rice, hard, oily bits of cheese, oil, and grit all over it, and that it was covered with unwashed pans. The counters were not cleaned, the floor was not swept, the sink was filthy and had some dishes piled in it. The living room was untouched. And, adding insult to injury, the empty cookie package was sitting on the kitchen table!!

not my kitchen, but you get the idea

The next day was Friday. No school for me. By the time the kids had gotten ready for school the kitchen sink was heaped with dirty dishes, and the counters were still piled with stuff too. I could get the house whipped into shape, although it would take me the entire time that the kids were in school to do it. But I just plain-old didn't want to. I was wavering on whether or not I should clean up because, after a month with no oven, that very Friday I decided it was worth calling a repair man to at least look at it. (Turns out it was very much worth having the repair man come.) I would die of embarrassment if this guy came in to check out my oven and the kitchen (and particularly the range) was as filthy as it was.

And then I remembered the mom on strike. So I made a sign and hung it in my yard. And I made a list of grievances and proposed solutions and posted it on the front door. I felt a little qualm about it—I knew that it could be embarrassing for the family. But I thought I'd rather let them be embarrassed than be totally mortified—as well as over-worked—myself. So. I am on strike.

Bruce got home before the kids were out of school that afternoon, and he was quite willing to support me and play my game. He said that if I was on strike I'd better not go pick the kids up from school; so he did it. And he made them come in through the front door (instead of through the garage) and he made them all stand around on the front porch and read my STRIKE notice that was posted there before they came in. (Which, I found out later, made the neighbors wonder what was going on.) Then he divvied out the housework—including laundry—amongst them and told them to consider the strike as a permanent thing.

They got the house to look fairly decent that afternoon—not to my standard of perfection, but not so bad. And they did OK on Saturday—especially considering that our stupid plumbing backed up that day (Bruce fixed that—My Hero!).

By Sunday afternoon the house was looking pretty disastrous again. As I worked on fixing dinner (I was going to stop cooking too, but reconsidered since I still want to eat good stuff) . . . As I fixed dinner on Sunday, I thought how nice it was that my spring break was starting this week and I could get the house looking the way I want it to. And then I realized that, no, I can't do that. I want my kids to learn this lesson: There is no slave of the lamp, no magical being that comes to our house to clean up, cook, shop, do laundry, etc. And Mom isn't magical either; she is tired.

So I'm leaving all the housework—except for what I use just for myself—to be done by my family. It might kill me!

Or maybe the kids will step up. I hope so!