Free The Pile of Stuff at the Bottom of the Stairs by Christina Hopkinson Page A

all things to do with the house. He stopped being able to wash his own shirts or go to the supermarket—after all, what else did I have to do all day? I was lucky enough to have this holiday, this protracted honeymoon of baby bonding, and so I had no right to complain about a few extra chores.
    I envied him going to work, but when the time came for me to do so, I was horrified at the prospect. Only a combination of Mary Poppins and Mother Courage could be trusted with my golden child. Since she didn’t exist I put him into a nursery, which might as well have been a Romanian orphanage for the cruelty I felt in doing so. I went back part-time, because the law said it was my right. Mitzi had said she didn’t know why people had babies if they weren’t going to be with them, though she managed to have as much childcare as I did, despite not having ajob to go to. Twenty percent less money and one more day with Rufus had seemed like a favorable exchange rate, but I hadn’t realized that it represented about 100 percent of the money I had to spend on anything other than mortgage and food. Somehow, too, the fifth of the job that got reduced was all the bits that I had liked best about it and none of the boring grind I’d gladly have eschewed.
    Part-time work had seemed to be the perfect solution and everyone told me how lucky I was. But it only further calcified the roles that had begun to form on maternity leave. I’m home, he’s work. Part-time work for me didn’t translate into part-time home for him, and my longed-for weekday with Rufus was quickly filled with fixing the washing machine and standing in the line at the post office clutching passport applications. The legislation that gives the right to part-time work for mothers is cited as a great victory for women, but I felt like I no longer fit in at the office, nor did I fit in with those mothers who didn’t have a job. I needed to be amphibious, but instead I was a fish out of water. I ruminated on going full-time or giving it all up. I’m not sure it would have made much difference if I’d gone back full-time, since Joel’s level of housework would not have risen as much as my resentment; while if I’d given up, I’d have been buried in even more dirty laundry than I already was, not to mention the disastrous effect on our finances.
    So here we are. I’m not quite sure how we got here, though I suppose I must have done my fair share of the driving.
    The next day over breakfast, I ask Joel, “Can you remember any of the labors of Hercules?”
    “Hmm,” he answers, not at all surprised that I am asking him this random question, but eagerly searching for some trivia. “There was the lion, wasn’t there? The one whose skinwas impervious to arrows or daggers. Ursula had a brilliant illustrated book of the myths of Greece and Rome. What was its name?”
    I shrug and he continues: “The best one was that he had to capture the Hound of Hades—he had three dog heads. Did that involve Medusa? I wonder if I could find my old copy. We should get a Greek myths book for Rufus, shouldn’t we?”
    “Yes, that’s what I was thinking,” I say. “Just what I was thinking.”

3
    Wet Towels on the Bed
    Friday comes and I throw off the shackles of domesticity to prepare for the party. The party in a fancy flat with architectural details and skylights and industrial concrete floors and child-unfriendly sculptures. Cara’s party.
    Cara and her flat deserve an unusual amount of care with my appearance. I put on a new dress, a claret-colored chiffon affair, which shimmies over my Spanx pants (these serve the dual purpose of squidging in my post-partum belly and being sexually repulsive to Joel. Result). The dress also requires that I plump up my cleavage, which, with the help of an extra-strength shove-up bra, can go from National Geographic to Sports Illustrated in seconds. I’ve just lost the last of those remaining pregnancy pounds and if I squint at the mirror I