Chores: Not a Dirty Word

Growing up, we always had chores; it was just how it was and nobody was excused. School nights were usually reserved for dinner and homework, and Sundays were for church, early dinner and Six Million Dollar Man or a Disney movie. Saturdays? Saturdays were a different story. Chores came first and when we completed them to my mother's satisfaction,  then and only then, were we  released from captivity to enjoy what was left of the day. We all complained, but it worked for us.

My mother would make a list in her swirly and often illegible handwriting, and we were expected to do our jobs, and do them right.  The chore list was fairly sexist at times (almost always): we girls generally were assigned domestic work and the boys worked in the yard. I remember raking up leaves or grass cuttings, but that happened rarely; it might have been because I just didn't put enough effort into scrubbing a toilet or she thought I was in the way. More than likely though, it was because for ten years, I held the coveted spot of youngest girl, and I think I was just excused more often than the others.

Summer days were  particularly harsh because with so much free time, my mother expected that we would do even more to help out. I wanted to sleep in and wake only in time to see Major Anthony Nelson (my future imaginary husband) on I Dream of Jeannie, and spend my day avoiding work. I was rarely successful. Get up. Have breakfast. Start your chores. My sisters and I would compare our assignments and complain that one always got the easy work. Funny, each of us always claimed to have the most difficult jobs. For me it was the devil's curse to see my name next to “dusting & vacuuming." Dusting was the worst ('remember to work from high to low'); my mother was very clear that furniture polish would leave permanent stains if it was left on too long and in my rush to avoid staining furniture, I'd do a half-assed job and have to start all over again. I hated it when my sisters finished their easy chores before my overwhelming and unfair amount of work was finished.

Washing dishes never bothered me very much, but drying them did. When my grandmother lived with us, she usually did the dishes after dinner and one of us was assigned the thrilling job of drying them, while another had to put them all away. Drying dishes sucked. We didn't have a dishwasher (except Grandma), so imagine the mountain of plates and bowls and cups and silverware, not to mention the pots and pans. I think that job was reserved for the troublemaker of the day, as an extra little form of punishment.

From the time my children were very young, they were assigned chores. Their little jobs consisted of household chores only; the man of the house insisted on hiring a gardener so the kids were spared the joys of yardwork . And so was the man, come to think of it... I would have rather done the lawn and gardening myself but since my time was better spent barefoot and tending to all my other domestic goddess duties, the gardener became a weekly visitor. The chores I gave my kids were simple and even today, I marvel at their indignation when I make a list. Sometimes 'people' forget that when done regularly and with a smidgen of effort, chores can make daily life so much easier: make your bed, empty the trash and recycling; pick up the toys and junk you’ve dumped all over the house/yard/driveway. When they were very young, I taught them how to sort their laundry and they were each expected to get their hampers out to the garage well before my Saturday laundry marathon began. For the most part, they were very helpful. However, it would be a big, fat lie to present it as an entirely idyllic affair. 

Like my mother, I've heard the complaints and cries of inequality. I've been told that I'm unfair, I'm mean and I'm no fun. Nobody else has chores--nobody. In fact, nobody else in the entire world has it as bad as my kids. One of the kids once mentioned going on strike. They continue to compare their assignments, just as I had done with my siblings. And let me tell you: it's a freakin' joy to listen to the bickering. This past weekend? Oh Sweet Mother of God, what a traumatic morning. After having left a list on Thursday and Friday, only one thing had been done. So, Saturday started with a bang. What could have taken an hour turned into an almost three hour event. Tempers flared and words were exchanged; comparisons and threats were made. It was a very emotional cleaning day. But guess what? The house got cleaned and WW III was diverted, for now. Next time, lips will be buttoned or duct taped and the work will get done without the BS.

And for the record: assigning chores is not, as I've been told, a form of torture. Nor does it warrant an investigation into the possible violation of child labor laws or even abuse.