When I got sick, I asked my husband for one simple thing: help with our two toddlers. Instead, he told me I “did nothing” because I stayed home. So I decided to show him exactly what my nothing was worth.
I developed asthma about a year ago, and most of the time it barely affected my life. I took my medication, kept an inhaler nearby, and carried on.
Then I caught a brutal cold.
Normally, I could have rested.
Within two days, my asthma flared so badly that lying down made me cough. I spent two nights sleeping upright against pillows, waking every hour because my chest felt tight.
Normally, I could have rested.
Unfortunately, I have a two-year-old and a three-year-old.
And toddlers do not care whether you’ve slept.
I wore a mask around the kids and tried not to cough near them.
At six-thirty each morning, somebody still wanted breakfast. Somebody needed a diaper changed. Somebody spilled milk. Somebody demanded the blue cup instead of the identical green cup.
By the second morning, I felt awful.
I wore a mask around the kids and tried not to cough near them.
Meanwhile, Derek, my husband, went about his normal routine.
I handled almost everything during the day, and Derek did a few things when he got home.
He works full-time and leaves around eight.
I stay home with the children.
Usually, that arrangement worked because I handled almost everything during the day, and Derek did a few things when he got home.
That week, though, I needed more.
After another awful night, I found him drinking coffee in the kitchen.
“I slept maybe two hours. I’m coughing constantly, and the kids are climbing all over me.”
“Derek, can you work from home today?”
He frowned.
“Why?”
I stared at him.
“Because I’m sick.”
“I know you’re sick.”
“You stay home, so you have to take care of the kids.”
“I slept maybe two hours. I’m coughing constantly, and the kids are climbing all over me. I need one day to recover.”
He crossed his arms.
“You stay home, so you have to take care of the kids.”
I thought I had misheard him.
“What?”
“You don’t do anything anyway. I’m the only one who works around here.”
Our son was throwing cereal under the table while our daughter yelled because her banana had broken in half.
For a second, I forgot about my cough.
I just looked at him.
Our son was throwing cereal under the table while our daughter yelled because her banana had broken in half.
Derek glanced at his watch.
“I can’t just skip work whenever you’re tired.”
“I’m not tired. I’m sick.”
I made lunch while sitting on a kitchen stool because standing made me dizzy.
“Same difference.”
I was too exhausted to fight.
“Fine.”
He left.
That day was miserable.
I made lunch while sitting on a kitchen stool because standing made me dizzy. My son refused his nap. By four, I was counting the minutes until Derek came home.
The next morning, I realized I was nearly out of one medication.
I told myself he had been stressed.
Maybe he would apologize.
He didn’t.
The next morning, I realized I was nearly out of one medication.
Derek was putting on his shoes when I asked, “Can you stop at the pharmacy before work?”
“Oh God. What else do you need?”
He groaned.
“Oh God. What else do you need?”
“Nothing else. Just the prescription.”
“I have to work.”
“It’s ten minutes away.”
“Then go yourself.”
“You should be grateful you even have me. No other man would put up with a sick wife.”
I stared at him.
“Derek, I’m asking you to pick up medication because I’m struggling to breathe comfortably.”
He grabbed his keys.
“No. I’m not doing it. You should be grateful you even have me. No other man would put up with a sick wife.”
I actually laughed once because the sentence was so ridiculous.
He got louder.
I stood in the hallway listening to his car pull away.
“You stay home, so you take care of everything!”
Then he slammed the door.
I stood in the hallway listening to his car pull away.
Our daughter walked over holding a stuffed rabbit.
“Mommy sad?”
I crouched down.
Instead, while the kids watched cartoons, I opened my laptop.
“Mommy’s just sick, baby.”
She hugged my leg.
Something in me shifted.
I wasn’t going to scream at Derek.
I wasn’t going to send him twenty angry messages.
Instead, while the kids watched cartoons, I opened my laptop.
If what I did all day was “nothing,” I wondered how much it would cost to replace some of it.
The first thing I did was arrange pharmacy delivery. If Derek wouldn’t spend ten minutes picking up the medication I needed to breathe comfortably, I wasn’t going to drag two toddlers across town while I was sick just to prove I could manage without him.
Then I kept going.
If what I did all day was “nothing,” I wondered how much it would cost to replace some of it.
I started with the things that would keep me from dragging two toddlers through stores while I could barely breathe.
Prepared meals for several days.
And finally, I ordered one thing I knew Derek would notice.
Toddler snacks.
Diapers and wipes delivered.
Disposable plates so I could skip some dishes.
Then I booked a laundry pickup.
I scheduled one professional cleaning.
And finally, I ordered one thing I knew Derek would notice.
The groceries and prepared meals arrived first, and I put them away.
A large indoor play enclosure.
It would take up part of the living room, but it would let the kids play safely beside me while I sat down instead of chasing them every second.
I paid extra for same-day delivery.
The groceries and prepared meals arrived first, and I put them away.
The laundry pickup came and went.
It came nearly to my shoulder and took up half the space beside the front door.
The cleaning appointment was scheduled for later that week.
But the last delivery stayed on the porch.
The box was enormous.
It came nearly to my shoulder and took up half the space beside the front door.
A full-color picture of the assembled play enclosure covered one side of the carton, complete with smiling toddlers sitting inside it. There was no mistaking what it was.
I heard his car door.
I was sitting on the couch when Derek came home.
I heard his car door.
Then silence.
Then:
“Oh God!”
The front door flew open.
His voice was loud enough that our son started laughing.
“What have you done?”
I looked up.
“Hi.”
“NO. Not this.”
His voice was loud enough that our son started laughing.
Derek pointed toward the porch.
“What is in that thing?”
Before I could answer, someone knocked.
“Something I need.”
“Why is there a box the size of a refrigerator outside our house?”
Before I could answer, someone knocked.
It was our neighbor Linda.
She looked at Derek, then at the enormous carton.
“Everything okay? I heard yelling.”
Her eyes went back to the box.
Derek’s face turned beet red.
“And now I have to ask. What on earth is in there?”
Another neighbor across the street had stepped onto her porch and was openly staring.
Derek’s face turned beet red.
“Everything’s fine.”
I smiled at Linda.
“It’s a play enclosure for the kids.”
“You bought that?”
She blinked.
“That whole thing?”
“Apparently.”
Derek looked at me.
“You bought that?”
“I did.”
Derek reached for the door.
Linda glanced between us.
“Well, now I’m curious why.”
Derek reached for the door.
“We’re fine, Linda.”
I said, “Derek told me I don’t do anything, so I’m replacing some of the nothing.”
Linda looked at him.
Linda gave me the smallest smile and headed home.
Then at the enormous box.
“Expensive nothing.”
Derek’s face went even redder.
Linda gave me the smallest smile and headed home.
Derek shut the door.
Then he noticed the receipts on the table.
His eyes widened.
“What did you spend?”
I handed them to him.
His eyes widened.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“We can’t spend money like this every week.”
“Exactly.”
I pointed toward the first receipt.
He stopped.
I pointed toward the first receipt.
“Prepared meals. I don’t have to cook while I’m sick.”
The next.
“Cleaning service.”
Then another.
“And that giant box?”
“Laundry pickup.”
He stared at me.
“And that giant box?”
“A play enclosure. The kids can play safely beside me while I recover.”
Derek dropped the receipts.
“This is insane.”
“I never said you literally do nothing.”
“No. It’s what happens when some of the things I supposedly don’t do have to be done by somebody else.”
His jaw tightened.
“I never said you literally do nothing.”
“You said those exact words yesterday.”
“I was frustrated.”
“You said them again this morning.”
I picked up the notebook beside me.
He opened his mouth.
I picked up the notebook beside me.
“What is that?”
“Things I’ve done today.”
He looked suspicious.
I opened it.
“This isn’t me saying my job is harder than yours.”
“Breakfast. Dishes. Diaper changes. Getting them dressed. Lunch. Cleaning up lunch. Nap routine. Snacks. Keeping them occupied while I tried not to cough on them.”
I turned the page.
“And that’s before dinner, baths, bedtime, laundry, groceries, appointments, and everything else.”
“Okay, Megan.”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
I kept my voice calm.
“This isn’t me saying my job is harder than yours. I’m not interested in competing.”
He sat down.
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to choose.”
“Choose what?”
“You’re sick. You’ll feel better next week.”
“We keep paying people to do part of my nothing, or you start doing some of it.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he said, “You’re sick. You’ll feel better next week.”
There it was.
He thought this was temporary.
I smiled.
Derek watched a woman carry supplies upstairs.
“We’ll see.”
Two days later, the cleaning service arrived.
Derek watched a woman carry supplies upstairs.
“How much is this costing again?”
I told him.
He winced.
“I could clean the bathrooms.”
“For cleaning bathrooms?”
“And the kitchen and floors.”
“I could clean the bathrooms.”
“Great.”
He looked surprised by how quickly I answered.
“I’ll cancel the next visit.”
By six, the bathrooms were untouched.
Saturday came.
Derek slept until nine. He made coffee, watched television with the kids, and repeatedly announced that he would clean “in a minute.”
By six, the bathrooms were untouched.
He finally noticed me walking past with towels.
“You’re seriously not going to do it?”
“You said you would.”
“Whenever you want. It’s your problem.”
He stared toward the bathroom.
“Tonight?”
“Whenever you want. It’s your problem.”
He cleaned it after dinner.
Then the laundry pickup charge appeared on our account.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said.
“I can wash clothes.”
“I agree.”
“I can wash clothes.”
“Perfect. Laundry is yours now.”
He laughed.
“All the laundry?”
“Yes.”
“Megan, where are the towels?”
He stopped laughing.
The first week, he turned several of the children’s light shirts pink with a red sock.
The next weekend, he discovered too late that nobody had clean bath towels.
“Megan, where are the towels?”
“Probably in your laundry.”
His expression was almost offended.
That night, I told Derek we needed another conversation.
Then he remembered.
That was when I realized something.
If I still had to remember when laundry needed doing, tell him what was running low, and answer every question, I was still managing it. His hands might have been doing the work, but the responsibility was still mine.
That night, I told Derek we needed another conversation.
He looked alarmed.
“I want you to take responsibility.”
“How expensive is this one?”
“Potentially free.”
He sat down.
“I don’t want occasional help,” I said. “I want you to take responsibility.”
Laundry became his.
If someone ran out of pajamas, Derek solved it.
He also took Thursday dinner.
If detergent ran out, Derek noticed.
He also took Thursday dinner, both weekend breakfasts, and bath time four nights each week.
He resisted.
“Why four?”
“Because there are seven nights.”
“You’re home all day.”
Maybe he was agreeing because he wanted the argument to end.
“And you’re their father every day.”
He went quiet.
Eventually, he said, “Okay.”
But I still didn’t know whether he understood the difference between doing a chore and actually being responsible for it.
Maybe he was agreeing because he wanted the argument to end.
So I stopped reminding him.
Sometimes he waited so long that I suspected he expected me to give in and do it myself.
The adjustment was messy.
He forgot things.
He complained.
Sometimes he waited so long that I suspected he expected me to give in and do it myself.
I didn’t.
Once the cold finally cleared and I could sleep lying down again, I realized the argument had changed something that getting better physically hadn’t.
Once I recovered, I made another change.
I wasn’t willing to go back to managing everything just because I was healthy enough to do it again.
Once I recovered, I made another change.
I found a small local playgroup we could comfortably afford and enrolled the kids two afternoons each week.
Derek asked, “Why? You don’t need childcare if you’re home.”
“I want those afternoons.”
“For what?”
For years, all my time had belonged to the house.
I thought about it.
For years, all my time had belonged to the house, the kids, errands, appointments, or Derek’s schedule.
“I don’t know yet.”
He waited.
I shrugged.
“I might read. I might take a class. I might sit somewhere quiet and drink coffee.”
Over the next few months, our house changed in small ways.
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
He didn’t argue.
Over the next few months, our house changed in small ways.
Not magically.
Derek still complained sometimes.
One Thursday, Derek came home carrying detergent.
I still had to stop myself from fixing problems that belonged to him.
But slowly, I stopped being the only person who noticed what needed doing.
One Thursday, Derek came home carrying detergent.
I hadn’t asked him to buy it.
He set it on the counter.
A few months earlier, I would have been the only person who noticed.
“We were almost out.”
I looked at the bottle.
A few months earlier, I would have been the only person who noticed.
He had finally seen something before I did.
Our marriage still needed work.
I stopped accepting the idea that financial income made his time more valuable than mine.
One decent stretch of parenting didn’t erase the way he had spoken to me when I was sick and struggling to breathe.
Learning to notice detergent didn’t make me forget the morning he’d refused to spend ten minutes picking up medication when I could barely breathe comfortably.
It didn’t erase the insult either.
But I stopped accepting the idea that financial income made his time more valuable than mine.
Several months after the argument, another large carton appeared on our porch.
“What did you order?”
My husband came home, saw it, and froze.
He opened the door carefully.
“What did you order?”
I smiled.
“Nothing for the house.”
Inside was a sewing machine.
For one second, I expected him to ask the price.
I had loved sewing before the kids were born. I had sold my old machine because we needed space for a crib and never replaced it.
Derek looked at the box.
Then at me.
For one second, I expected him to ask the price.
This was one thing that was just mine.
Instead, he said:
“Okay. Where are we putting it?”
Months earlier, the biggest box on our porch had been something I needed so I could keep taking care of everyone else.
This was one thing that was just mine.
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