ancient, stoop-shouldered Nonna as the dog snored underfoot. Werenât Mattâs housekeeping deficiencies the natural result of his exotic background? Should I really be giving my pinched, Anglo, middle-class world view so much priority in our relationship?
At one stage I decided that Iâd stop flogging a dead horse, since it was perfectly obvious that Matthew wasnât going to stop vacuuming around things (instead of moving furniture), or start wiping down windowsills without being endlessly nagged about it. I thought to myself: why fight the forces of history? Why not go with the flow, stop struggling, and surrender yourself to your traditional role? But that didnât work either. For one thing, I would have been forced to give up my job, and for another, Matthew couldnât manage the traditional male role any better than heâd been managing the New Age one. He broke our lawnmower, the other day. He also cracked a wall putting some pictures up. And though heâs not a bad hand with the fuse box (thank God), his understanding of tap washers, car engines and barbecue gas bottles is as rudimentary as mine. In other words, while Iâve been playing my part, he hasnât been playing his. And even this wouldnât matter so much if it wasnât costing us money. It costs money to fix a lawnmower. It costs money to have a couch recovered, because he let the kids play on it with markers. Couldnât he see what was going to happen? Why doesnât he think ahead sometimes?
I donât knowâmaybe itâs biological. I saw a documentary on television the other day that described how menâs and womenâs brains are wired up differently. Apparently itâs a scientific fact that women are better at multi-tasking than men are. So why am I blaming Matt, when I should be blaming myself for my unrealistic expectations? Lots of people would ask me what Iâm moaning about: Matthew lends a hand, doesnât he? He looks after the kids, and irons his own shirts. He even cooks, on occasion. At least he makes an attempt at cleaning, and whoâs to say his way is the wrong way? Whoâs to say it matters that thereâs soap scum on the shower screens? Perhaps it doesnât. Perhaps Iâm being a neurotic perfectionist. Sometimes I stop, and think, and realise that Iâm turning into my own mother. Once that would have been an appalling thought. I used to say to Matthew: Please, please, if I ever start turning into my mother, you must tell me. You must warn me.
Now, however, it doesnât seem so simple. After all, it was my mother who taught me how to hemstitch, and what to do with bloodstains. Matthew didnât even know how to sew on a button, when I met him. I had to show him how to do it. Am I really so anal, just because I insist that he doesnât walk around with half the buttons off his shirt? Perhaps I am. I must be, or why else would he be seeing the Girl With Purple Hair?
When I think of losing himâwhen I think of how lovely he is, and how mean Iâve beenâI canât bear it. Do you know that he once came home with a cappuccino maker heâd bought for me (an impulse buy) and I was cross with him for wasting our money? How could I have done that? And the drum kit. Why have I been so horrible about the drum kit, when I used to love watching him play so much? The power of his arms, the loose and casual speed of themâI loved that. I loved his half-closed eyes, and his huge smile, and the way he sat on his stool, with his long legs folded up in their dusty black jeans.
One Tuesday, when he was minding the kids, he went out with them and bought some furniture polish. They were going to help him polish the coffee table in the living room, you see, and whatâs more they did it. But naturally they used too much polish and didnât wipe enough of it off, so the coffee table was sticky and streaky when they had finished. And of
At one stage I decided that Iâd stop flogging a dead horse, since it was perfectly obvious that Matthew wasnât going to stop vacuuming around things (instead of moving furniture), or start wiping down windowsills without being endlessly nagged about it. I thought to myself: why fight the forces of history? Why not go with the flow, stop struggling, and surrender yourself to your traditional role? But that didnât work either. For one thing, I would have been forced to give up my job, and for another, Matthew couldnât manage the traditional male role any better than heâd been managing the New Age one. He broke our lawnmower, the other day. He also cracked a wall putting some pictures up. And though heâs not a bad hand with the fuse box (thank God), his understanding of tap washers, car engines and barbecue gas bottles is as rudimentary as mine. In other words, while Iâve been playing my part, he hasnât been playing his. And even this wouldnât matter so much if it wasnât costing us money. It costs money to fix a lawnmower. It costs money to have a couch recovered, because he let the kids play on it with markers. Couldnât he see what was going to happen? Why doesnât he think ahead sometimes?
I donât knowâmaybe itâs biological. I saw a documentary on television the other day that described how menâs and womenâs brains are wired up differently. Apparently itâs a scientific fact that women are better at multi-tasking than men are. So why am I blaming Matt, when I should be blaming myself for my unrealistic expectations? Lots of people would ask me what Iâm moaning about: Matthew lends a hand, doesnât he? He looks after the kids, and irons his own shirts. He even cooks, on occasion. At least he makes an attempt at cleaning, and whoâs to say his way is the wrong way? Whoâs to say it matters that thereâs soap scum on the shower screens? Perhaps it doesnât. Perhaps Iâm being a neurotic perfectionist. Sometimes I stop, and think, and realise that Iâm turning into my own mother. Once that would have been an appalling thought. I used to say to Matthew: Please, please, if I ever start turning into my mother, you must tell me. You must warn me.
Now, however, it doesnât seem so simple. After all, it was my mother who taught me how to hemstitch, and what to do with bloodstains. Matthew didnât even know how to sew on a button, when I met him. I had to show him how to do it. Am I really so anal, just because I insist that he doesnât walk around with half the buttons off his shirt? Perhaps I am. I must be, or why else would he be seeing the Girl With Purple Hair?
When I think of losing himâwhen I think of how lovely he is, and how mean Iâve beenâI canât bear it. Do you know that he once came home with a cappuccino maker heâd bought for me (an impulse buy) and I was cross with him for wasting our money? How could I have done that? And the drum kit. Why have I been so horrible about the drum kit, when I used to love watching him play so much? The power of his arms, the loose and casual speed of themâI loved that. I loved his half-closed eyes, and his huge smile, and the way he sat on his stool, with his long legs folded up in their dusty black jeans.
One Tuesday, when he was minding the kids, he went out with them and bought some furniture polish. They were going to help him polish the coffee table in the living room, you see, and whatâs more they did it. But naturally they used too much polish and didnât wipe enough of it off, so the coffee table was sticky and streaky when they had finished. And of
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