A ‘domestic powerhouse’

Somehow this phrase popped into my head as I cleaned the bathroom basin yesterday – thinking of something else entirely, probably. But there it was, this phrase, sticking in my head for the rest of the day and recurring today much to my amusement. “You’re a domestic powerhouse.” I had walked to the nearby shops for milk and vegetables, and done the usual morning routine of hand washing Mum’s things, getting breakfast, giving Mum her calcium injection and put out two loads of her washing. I went on to make Anzac biscuits before I headed off to play Rummikub with friends after lunch (homemade minestrone). Then came home to bring in the washing, sweep the driveway, pick up cabbage tree leaves, get the fire going, give Mum her cheese and crackers and do the ironing before getting dinner.

Today, I decided, would be just for reading – apart from the usual routines of morning, lunch and evening. There was only one thing on my list:

Now, at the end of the day, I have read only a couple of chapters of my book. I made bread, cleaned the bathroom, washed the shower curtains and bathmat, washed the floor and the front porch and steps. Before long, it was time to set the fire and fetch in kindling and wood. Is ‘retirement’ a misnomer?

I began to make a list in my head of the things I do about the house each day. I thought how weird it is that I tend to think about what I haven’t done (washed the inside of the windows, sanded and polyurethaned the window sills, cut back perennials…) rather than what I have achieved. I imagine this is typical. It reminded me of Flip Grater’s recent column in The Press where she wrote that the unpaid work of women in caring for family, children, the elderly, the disabled, and general voluntary work, is what supports our economic system, namely capitalism. And what about the women who do all that and still do paid work? Marilyn Waring has long since argued that unpaid work should be factored into our Gross Domestic Product. I agree.

Give those parents a medal!

What a week! But I had a hollow feeling as I drove away rather than the relief I might have expected to feel. I realised I’d taken on a state of alert and anxiety while in loco parentis. I’d had a taste of what parents must feel constantly, and enjoyed it.

With my sister and brother-in-law and their younger son due home any moment, I’d just taken Dom, the border collie, back to their house and done the last jobs: topped up the cats’ bowls, fed the fish, changed the bird’s water. And put away my nephew’s washing. Becoming familiar with where he keeps his undies and socks was not something I had anticipated.

His parents and brother were away on holiday and he was at home with a quiet week and lucrative work to look forward to. When he was unexpectedly admitted to hospital, I was suddenly doing the visiting and taking the dog home to my place.

An old infection had flared up again. Five nights in hospital and an operation followed. A lot of time for an active 18-year-old to be lying about. I took in his lap top and a couple of magazines and enjoyed my visits. The nursing staff were great, with back-and-forth banter, even as he endured the many changes of intravenous fluids.

Meantime, Dom kept guard at my gate and the chickens kept him in line if he ventured into their part of the garden – particularly after he ate their mash and one of their corn cobs. It’s funny to see a great border collie running away with chooks in indignant pursuit. Keeping him at the front of the house when he wasn’t inside seemed best, but meant I was always watching in case he squeezed through the fence or someone took a fancy to him. He’s a lovely, affectionate, well-trained dog, and a bit of a doofus.

Today, it’s just the aged mother and me and the chooks. I’ve collected up handfuls of dog fur from the carpet, washed the floors – and even cleaned the windows to use up the excess energy left from the adrenaline of being on alert. I can catch up on my reading. I can do whatever I feel like. But the hollow feeling was a surprise. It only lasted till the end of the street, but still.

Well done, parents!