I’ve seen some weird reactions to people talking about having a cleaner (disclaimer: I have one and couldn’t manage my life without her). I don’t see it as anything different to having a hairdresser, accountant, gardener or dentist. They are all people who offer I service I don’t have either the time or skills do myself, and are paid fairly in the job they’ve chosen to do. Why is it worthy of comment?
Apparently it is, and it all gets tied up in what we expect of women, men, and paid versus unpaid work.
I’ve been told it’s lazy, elitist, even racist (which is particularly odd given that my cleaner is German) and those comments are often accompanied by the faint pursed-lipped hint that a proper woman can clean her house by herself, so what’s wrong with you? Hidden somewhere way down deep, is the idea that an adult woman is an effortlessly perfect housewife and women who aren’t are denying their own (and all women’s) true nature.
It’s even more interesting in comparison to a male friend of mine, who uses the same cleaner. He gets the eye-rolling contempt of the poor stupid man doesn’t know how to clean a toilet, but he’s even more of a proper man because of it.
We published quite a few articles about unconscious bias over recent months, and how it affects women at work, but it’s also a factor in how we manage the unpaid work, the second shift that is still predominantly done by women. And the perception that a “proper woman” will manage it all on her own, because having it all means a dream job, perfectly ironed clothes, a sparkly clean kitchen, delightful children, a compliant yet powerful man and perfect nails.
Bollocks.
I have a dream job, that I sometimes do very well; other times, I just barely get through a day with some measure of competence. My home stays at a manageable level of chaos only because I pay someone to help me keep it that way. I spend far too many days in my pyjamas (oh working from home, how I love you) and the rest of the time in comfortable jeans. My children are occasionally lovely, sometimes ratty but mostly too caught up in managing hormone angst to be delightful.
And the less said about my bitten fingernails the better.
There are still too many unpaid bills, unanswered emails, tasks left undone, too much of the minutia of life unaddressed.
And I’m fairly sure this is closer to most women’s experience than the laundry soap commercial we are told it should be.
Of all the things about my life on which people could choose to pass judgment, three things come up with boring regularity: how I dress, how I speak and who washes my floor.
Isn’t that outfit a bit young for you?
You’re a bit old to wear that aren’t you?
You could have at least put a bit of lipstick on.
Why do you have to be so opinionated all the time?
It just sounds so bad when women swear.
You could be a bit nicer about it, you catch more flies with honey, you know.
Oh, you’re too good to clean your own toilet are you?
Well why should she have to clean your place, just because you can’t be bothered?
My mother worked, but she still cleaned the floor and cooked a meal every day. And she never complained.
After far too many years apologising, justifying, hiding or deflecting comments on the choices I make for myself and my family, I have finally learned to stare down the judgement and see it for what it is: someone else’s problem.
It doesn’t get much more first-world-problems than complaining about complaints about me having a cleaner. I fully recognise the ridiculousness of it, but you can’t write about homicide stats every day, and all those small daily interactions that reinforce what a woman “should” be, and demonstrate how long it is taking us to shake off the gender roles we’ve been talking about for generations.
We’ve changed a great deal about women’s paid work in a relatively short time, and there’s still a lot more to do. But part of the change we need to keep pushing is the expectations we have of women, and men.
How women dress, how they speak and how they manage all the unpaid work they are still expected to do is not something to measure against a mythical Stepford wife standard of perfection.