Years ago, when I was sitting at a little courtyard in inner-city Sydney, I remember seeing a woman on her way home from work. She had her heels in hand, wearing her comfortable walking shoes. Two school-age children beside her. Hurrying to keep up while her feet carried her quickly to the next necessary pick-up spot. She probably knew the time, and that she was running precariously close to late.
Pick up for the youngest, at day care, was her final stop. In Australia, the latest pickup is usually 6pm. Any for time later than that the overtime fees are astronomical. And the glares from the over-worked staff are pretty harsh too. Everyone is tired and ready to go home.
I don’t remember how long ago this was. Did I have children of my own, at home with my husband? Or was it long ago before my own children? Either way my heart went out to her. I knew that once she battled the traffic, the train or bus home with three tired young children her day wouldn’t be over. Far from it.
I knew even if she’d managed to meal prep on the weekend, she’d still need to turn that into a meal. If she got takeaway, that was an expense that meant more working hours were needed to pay for it. Or cooking from scratch meant hungry and tired children. Whichever way, she probably just wanted to flop on the couch and close her eyes.
This woman isn’t alone. In the whole world, women are doing variations of this. Not so say that many men aren’t. Not at all. There are so so many amazing men in our lives who do this work, who stay at home with children and make the meals, who do the school pick and drop off. Who clean the house and have a warm meal on the table for their partner.
But continued reports say that in this age of women can do it all, they are. And still continue to have to do most of it.
This writing isn’t so much about the percentages or the role of women in our society. Or the way they still are so overtired, overworked, and overwhelmed.
This is about the small ways it shows up. I work from home. I have that privilege to not have to do the school run or do the shopping each week. I have the privilege of not having to make dinner every night for a husband who comes home late and tired. I know I am amongst a small, small minority.
As I write this I am sitting on our couch. In a version of my house clothes (pyjamas). I am tending the fire. I am sick and am spending the week with a strange EEG contraction stuck to my head, to see what might be wrong with me. So officially I’m not meant to leave the house. But even so, my current situation of not being able to drive or go anywhere, means that I am able to stay at home.
I must make my time on the couch bring in the money. So, there is that. And that, I think is maybe what this writing is about. Maybe why I sat down to start this story of that woman I saw when I was sitting, all on my own, in a courtyard in inner-city Sydney.
In the morning I pack my 8-yr old’s lunchbox. He has the same thing every day, until he suddenly one day decides he’s bored with that and changes his mind. Currently it’s freshly made pizza, cherry tomatoes from the farmer’s market and two mint slice biscuits. Sometimes he shares one of these biscuits with his friend. Who sometimes shares his lunch with my son. His friend’s dad gets up and makes lunch for his three kids every morning.
My husband makes our morning coffee. My son gets dressed. He leaves his pyjamas scattered perhaps on the kitchen floor or the loungeroom floor. Very occasionally they are tucked under his pillow, so we know where to find them tonight. His dirty socks from yesterday are mostly found pushed under the couch cushions. My eldest son, who is 18, often leaves his dirty socks pushed under the couch cushions.
They rush to school. Flying out the door, morning play toys sometimes packed away, a small dirty face sometimes washed clean of breakfast. The kitchen bench strewn with the makings of a life. The washing up from last night, from this morning waiting for the work-from-home person. The stay-at-home person. Me.
I have been watching, lately, some Jamie Oliver cooking shows. They are recent ones, filmed during lock down Covid times. He is at his house. We speculate he has many different spots around, kitchens that he films in that aren’t his main family kitchen. But his family are there, all around. His young boys, running in and out. His youngest has the same name as my youngest and seems as cheeky.
His wife, who appears occasionally, looking very casual (which I love, not dressed up, hair a bit scruffy, looking like just a regular mother. Not the wife of the world’s richest chef, who lives in an 11 million $ or £ house). In one episode Jamie is talking to camera, making food that we can all cook at home. The family walk in and he says what he’s cooking. She says that she’s cleaned the house, washed the clothes, played all day with the kids, bathed the kids. The joy of hearing her tell her husband the regular things she’s done during the day.
Soon I will wash up and gather up all the clothes for washing. I will take out the compost. I will bring in more firewood. I will encourage my daughter to do her home-schooling work. I will finish this writing and get back into my official work that (hopefully) makes money work. And perhaps, at some stage, I will do the thing that many many women do not often get to do; I will sit and read in the sunshine, or I will sip tea with my stitching in my hand.
And I will think of the women in Sydney doing the late after work pick up. I will think of the women in India who have worked for 15 hours in a factory today and will go home to stoke the fire to make the meal. I will think of the women bent low over the rice fields or the tea plantations.
And I will be grateful for doing the washing up, for doing the clothes washing, for being able to take time to rest while I am sick; even if it’s un-paid leave.
The lines of Tracey Chapman singing ‘women’s work’ ring in my ears often. The haunting words and voice. Perhaps it might do the same for you. Perhaps today you’ll let the small bits of your work be honoured, the hardness that you do endure. And perhaps today you’ll honour the other women in our world who endure the hardness too.
Perhaps this writing is just a piece of self-indulgent drivel….
Sending heart-felt prayers for your healthy journey...
Today I got up, fed the dog, put the kettle on and now write you. By seven I’ll be in my wee studio writing. I can only write for an hour this morning. Then I must quick walk the dog before a pal picks me up to take me and two other women into the city. We are going to see a vast display of women’s work- the Canadian National Quilt Show. Naturally it is incorrect to call this women’s work today but in our hearts we know what we know. My kids are well grown and gone with kids of their own some of whom are also grown and gone. My step kids or second crop are also grown and gone. My fella and I both work a bit. But still there is shopping and cooking and the garden and clothes to hang out and the ever arduous work of tending our own aging bodies! The fella does it all too - well I do more dishes and he does snow removal and vacuuming. I like the domestic life these days but I fought it hard when I was young. Ah well. Still I’m glad that the quilts I will be seeing today including my pal’s are now considered art and not just “women’s work”!