My husband is a teacher. We have two children under three. And without fail, every school holiday begins with an argument. The argument content changes but the pattern remains the same. Having just spent the past 10 to 12 weeks adjusting to solo parenting through the work-week and wishing for the holidays to come, I find my husband is suddenly at home with us. And all the hidden resentment and expectations rise to the surface, a symptom of burnout and unmet needs.
The problem is, each time we have this argument(s), we believe in the moment that the content of the conflict (money, the cleanliness of the house, the plethora of chickens we keep accumulating) seems vital. Exhaustion and low emotional capacity convince us that this is the nexus of all our issues. Inevitably, we muddle through, begin to understand each other, try to empathise and, by the end of the holiday, we are flowing. We begin to see each other in gratitude rather than lack and things lovingly return to some semblance of balance.
Then BAM! Term goes back, our time and mental capacity seep away and we are left in survival mode again, fighting our own inner demons by projecting them onto each other. Each time this happens, we rage against a social structure that does not value the unpaid and unseen work of raising children, work that overwhelmingly still falls on women. More and more, our current life feels unsustainable: the burden of parenting burning us out, followed by a micro-reprieve, enough to add a few drops to our cup before the work/parenting/domestic juggle drains it away again and leaves me wondering why I can’t cope.
In April last year, we discovered why we seem to struggle so much. Our friends from the UK came and lived with us for a month with their daughter, the same age as our eldest. Between four adults, we shared the parenting of three children, cooking and cleaning, and activities coordination – not to mention the parenting and domestic mental load. During this time, none of us were engaged in paid employment. What we discovered is this: four adults caring for three children full-time was the MINIMUM required to allow us to feel like our cups weren’t being drained to sub-zero by the end of each day.
We were still exhausted. There was never a moment when someone was lying around doing nothing: we were all still working constantly. We still had to juggle negotiations for short bursts of alone time to recharge. We still navigated conflict, even more complex with four adults. And yet, with four adults there appeared a sense of ease and flow. The energy wasn’t so frantic and tense. We could pass off the kids to each other when we began to feel overwhelmed. Living with another woman in the house felt like an indescribable relief and consequently left me with a profound sense of grief when the holiday was over. I realised how vital it was for my wellbeing to have another woman in my home to emotionally regulate with. It felt normal, natural, like a coming home to the way humans are designed to live.
The most recent school holidays left me with this realisation: our socially structured nuclear families leave us projecting expectations onto our spouse that are supposed to be spread across a village of people.
We rail against our husbands when they try to fix a situation rather than empathising, we grieve the lack of support from our own parents as we parent our children. And although both these scenarios and the feelings accompanying them are valid and need to be honoured, our attention and rage at not having our needs met is better directed toward the culture that sets the scene for this conflict to play out.
No one person can meet all of our needs, yet generally we only live in a house with one other adult, Even less for single parents. It’s my belief that this is the nexus of so much conflict in the home. It’s not that I have too many chickens (you can never have too many, right?). It's that our culture has broken down family structures to just two people, helplessly trying to fill their cups and wondering why they feel like they're always running on empty.
I have no answers on how to remedy this aside from selling up and moving to an eco-village in Costa Rica (definitely an option). But perhaps now that it’s written down, next school holidays I’ll drop the armour and expectation, and instead of shouting at my husband “we need more chickens!”, I’ll lean in and whisper “f**k the patriarchy, let’s go get ice-cream".
About the writer
Andy Lawrence is a mother of two girls who lives and works in the Illawarra. For full-spectrum doula care, mother-centred celebrations and women’s circles, visit andylawrence.com.au
Read about Andy's career path from scientist to doula here.
