I showed up to the veterinarian with my elderly Spanish Water Dog, Josie. I try to make these trips quick because her shaking and whining during the entire ride to and from the office inevitably get on my last nerve. Racing down the interstate, I was making a mental list of what I hadn’t had a chance to accomplish before leaving the house. I pulled into the parking lot at 9:26 AM, with just enough time to let Josie do her business before going into the office.
Immediately, Josie scooted under the row of chairs in the waiting room, hoping no one would know she was there. I grabbed my phone and clicked open the Notepad app. Rapidly, I began typing out the to-do list that I was storing in my head, knowing it was unlikely I would remember everything by the time I got home. Schedule with the dentist…Call the bank…Start a load of laundry…Check on my husband’s prescriptions…Finish the outline for my next blog piece…
I looked up when one of the techs sat next to me and leaned close, whispering, “You’re an hour early, you know.”
“Whaaa—?” I pushed aside my thoughts and tried to focus on what Heather was saying.
“Josie’s appointment is at 10:30. It’s only 9:30.”
“You sure?” I asked, popping open my phone’s calendar app. I flipped to today’s date and stared: Josie to vet: 10:30. My shoulders sagged.
“It’s okay. Really.” She patted my arm reassuringly. Or, maybe it was compassionately.
“Oh, Jeez. How’d that happen? How could I have done that?” I glared at the trusty phone organizer that had let me down. The truth was, my organizer was correct. It was me who had gotten it wrong.
As I sat there, resigned to losing a full hour out of my already overflowing day, I began to play that familiar blame-game that nearly every woman I know has played at some point. With my lists and my schedulers and my organizers and my reminders and my post-it notes and my…and… I was still failing. If I had it so together, why did I feel so inadequate?
I wasn’t inadequate. I was stressed and overwhelmed. I remembered a comic strip I had read in The Guardian by the French artist, Emma. As I thought about the illustrations, I stopped blaming myself. Emma introduced me to the concept of The Mental Load. It’s when one person in a household, usually the woman, is seen as the household manager. In a work environment, the manager is responsible for overseeing the day-to-day operation while delegating the tasks to workers; in a household, it’s that, plus more. The woman often does at least half of the household chores in addition to overseeing the entire operation.
The woman thinks about every detail of the running of the house, from knowing when it’s time to go grocery shopping and what to buy, to maintaining health records for the children, to everything in between. This constant attention to, and organizing of, details is unrelenting and exhausting. Add to that performing at least half the family tasks and the inequity becomes clear. Next, layer on the outside job(s) that many women hold, and it’s obvious why things like showing up to the vet’s office at the wrong time might happen.
I’m not saying my husband and children aren’t happy to help cook dinner, switch the laundry from washer to dryer, or take out the garbage. I’m saying that it doesn’t happen unless I issue the order. This leads to me constantly reviewing the countless and endless tasks, determining what needs to be done and then assigning the job. I assume The Mental Load. The rug needs to be vacuumed. Am I the only one who can see that? The dishwasher needs to be unloaded. Does no one else realize those clean dishes don’t put themselves away? The dog poo needs to be picked up in the backyard. Am I the only one who doesn’t want to clean it off my shoes?
In one sample day, someone let the dogs in without wiping their feet; I spent twenty minutes picking up my daughter’s dirty clothes from her room; my son sat playing a video game as I juggled three dishes cooking simultaneously for dinner; the front doorbell was ringing, but no one was answering; the filthy floor from the muddy dog feet still went unmopped. When I snapped at my husband and he made a joke about my moodiness, I went on strike. All three of my people stood blinking at me in confusion and said, “You should have asked for help.”
The Mental Load. The expectation that I have to ask or instruct what should be obvious. I knew it couldn’t just be me, so I asked some of my women friends who are roughly at my stage of life. Was this Mental Load something that they carried, too?
Buddy One: “Oh, like the time my in-laws were coming over and I had to yell at my husband to get his dirty boxer shorts off the floral-patterned Queen Anne-style wing chair in my living room? He said I should have just told him to move them.” Bingo. The Mental Load.
Buddy Two: “You mean, like when I go away for a weekend with girlfriends and I get a phone call every time the dogs need to be fed to make sure they’re doing it correctly. I write it down in detail, every step of the feeding process, but it’s not enough. I have to talk them through it.” Even on vacation, The Mental Load.
Buddy Three: “When I get home from work and my teenage kids are all sitting around, watching tv. The first thing they want to know is ‘how long until dinner?’ I left the chicken thawing and the vegetables in the strainer in the sink. I ask why no one had started dinner and they just stare at me. ‘You didn’t tell us to start it.’” Yep. Mental Load.
Buddy Four: “My son has been having a toothache. I gave him the phone number for the dentist, but when I asked if he’s made the appointment, he said, ‘I thought you were going to do it.’ My son is twenty-two.” Check. Mental Load (and maybe a bit coddled).
Buddy Five: “The toilet and bathroom need to be cleaned. I ask my husband why he hasn’t done it when he’s the one who made the mess. He says because I didn’t tell him to do it.” Okay, Mental Load and…come on, gross!
Add to the daily list of household chores all the other activities. Planning family vacations. Organizing kids’ birthday celebrations. Overseeing holiday preparations and gift-buying. Scheduling car maintenance. All part of life. All things that need to be done. And, all I have to do is ask if I want help.
Now, to be fair, there is truth in the adage, “too many cooks spoil the broth.” Someone must be the point person. Someone has to have the big picture view. The problem becomes when that someone who is carrying The Mental Load is also doing a large portion of the daily chores.
There is a valid reason why the women I know are exhausted every minute of every day. Having her significant other explain how difficult his day is, with all of the stress that falls on him, only underscores his obtuseness. When he needs some “down time” after work, with a recap of last night’s basketball game on the tv and a bottle of Bud, he forgets that the dinner being cooked also required planning, shopping, and prep. The Mental Load that was carried before that meal was cooked.
What’s on sale?…In how many dinners can I use this massive head of fresh broccoli?…When can I get to the store?…After I finish paying the bills and before I pick up tax forms from the accountant?…I hope the car doesn’t die on the way since I forgot to have it checked when the engine light came on…Do I have enough soy sauce or do I need to go back to the store?
Is there a remedy for The Mental Load? Is it possible for the average woman to be the family manager and delegate all the tasks to the others in the household? Maybe some women assume this role because it makes sense that one person has sweeping oversight. Or, as in my case, maybe there’s a touch of a control issue. I am convinced that things are done more to my liking if I am in charge of everything. I won’t pretend I have the solution to The Mental Load. I just know that it is a full-time, energy-sapping job. And, I know women should give themselves a break when they show up an hour early to the vet’s office.