Emo:
“Niyka, my folks have sent us real goat’s milk. I’ve put it on to boil – I’ve done all the work for you. You just make sure it doesn’t boil over.”
With the air of a man whose job is well and truly done, he lies down to watch the match. For the next ten-odd minutes I’m hunched tensely over the hob, glaring at that thick milk of his in case it decides to rise the very second I glance at my phone.
A little later.
Emo again: “Niyka, there was a big pile of laundry. Just so you know, I’ve washed the lot!”
(Don’t picture him stripped to the waist, scrubbing away with rolled-up biceps in a tub of homemade soap, smiling at me through the soap bubbles floating in the air.) No.
In our house everyone puts their dirty clothes straight into the washing machine. So “washing the lot” means putting in a detergent pod, shutting the machine door and pressing the button).
“I’ve done all the work for you,” he goes on. “You just take the clothes out, fold them and sort them.”
I spend 30 minutes after the wash-and-dry programme finishes sorting and folding clothes. The clothes are easy enough. But a feeling of cosmic helplessness grips me when I get to the heap of men’s underwear personally washed by Emo, which has the following characteristics:
- All the men’s pants are black. 70% of them (Emo’s and fifteen-year-old Viktor’s) are the same size.
- All the men’s socks are black too, and there is invariably an odd number of them.
- Textile manufacturers have adopted a sneaky general policy. Namely, making stretchy socks that cover several sizes. This makes my life even more complicated. All 169 black socks in the heap in front of me are the nebulous size 41–45. Nikola, aged 11, wears a 41, and his big brother and his dad a 45. In other words, every sock could fit every man in the family. Oh, never mind, no point overthinking it – I grab pairs of black socks at random and start mating them.
“Phewww, what an exhausting day,” I groan out loud. I hope Emo gets the hint. It’s not just about putting the milk on the hob and buggering off. Or pressing the button on the washing machine and announcing “I’ve done the washing.” The real work comes afterwards. Housework calls for long-term commitment, but men just can’t do that sort of thing.
Try telling Emo that.
“And what are YOU complaining about? I boiled her milk, I washed her laundry, while madam here has opened her laptop and is writing away, scribbling made-up stuff about me!”
* * *
It’s time for bed. The lights in the house are off, the kids are in their rooms. I come out of the bathroom fresh from the shower, dreaming of getting into bed, reading a bit of my book and sinking into the land of nod.
The last time I saw Emo he was nodding off in front of the telly in the living room. I hope he stays there, because if he’s come up to the bedroom, he’ll probably want to “play-play”. And much as I love to play-play, sorting those socks has worn me out, and today I’d rather go straight to sleep.
I open the bedroom door. It’s dark inside, but my eyes immediately make out Emo, who’s gone to bed. He has his back to me; all I can see is the top of his head. The telly, however, is right opposite me, and something is flickering on it.
With my heart pounding, I look at the telly. What channel Emo has put on will decide my sentence for the next half hour. If he’s put on an adult film, it’s clear – the family games will be declared open very shortly. If it’s National Geographic – “Cocaine Mules in Colombia”, say – he might let me sleep.
What a relief! Emo is watching WS teleshop. Genuine interest radiates from the top of his head at some multi-cooker that can boil milk and make crème caramel at the same time. Ever since he wore himself out boiling milk today, Emo has begun to feel for the problems of modern milk-boiling. Fine, let the boy get excited. I plan to seize the moment and have a nice little kip.
I lie down and drift off almost at once. In my mind, the enthusiastic trills of the WS teleshop presenter’s voice blur into the sounds and vague shapes of the sleep enveloping me. Bliss! However lame it sounds, my very favourite moment of the whole day is when I go to bed and fall asleep.
And what I hate most is when, right at the sweetest moment just before I finally drop off, the voice of the WS teleshop presenter abruptly changes and turns into the exclamations of an actress from an adult film.
Emo has changed the channel and is prodding me manfully with an appeal for us to do what they’re doing on the telly.
“Oh, Emil, I’m really tired, let’s leave it till the morning.”
“You go beddy-byes, I’ll do all the work” (his voice betrays a bitter “as usual”).
Unlike the housework, in this department Emo not only starts things but finishes them too. I leap up as if stung. Better to wake myself up, take an active part and keep control of the process. Otherwise, if I leave everything in his hands, I won’t be surprised if in a month we have the following conversation:
“What are you complaining about, Niyka? I did all the work and made the whole baby. All you have to do is carry it, give birth to it and breastfeed it.”
So who gets more of the work done in your family? The husband or the wife? I’m genuinely asking.
