Was I a tradwife back in the 1980s? Or was I a second-wave feminist still figuring out how to make the marriage-family-career thing work?
This question occurred to me the other day as I was reading over some columns I’d written for the Oakland Tribune. I wrote them back in the 1980s, when the kids were small and Jon and I were a two-paycheck couple.
I plan to put those columns together in a book, so I was taking a hard look at how my twentieth-century thoughts might strike a twenty-first-century reader.
One of the columns — from 1987 — was a rant about how the men in the families I knew were not holding up their end of the parenting responsibilities.
This was a state of affairs we women of the 1980s and ’90s were wont to complain about — to each other (often) and to our husbands (cautiously).
Toward the end of the column in question I let fall my dirty little (tradwife) secret: I didn’t really want to fully share the responsibilities I had as a mom.
After all, I reasoned, if the men in the family started doing their share of the care of the little ones, they’d have to be accorded the authority that goes along with responsibility.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to let go of being in charge.
What’s a Tradwife?
A tradwife, just so you know, is a woman who embraces traditional gender roles — the husband goes off to work and the wife stays home and takes care of the cooking, the cleaning, the shopping — and the kids.
Today’s conservative Christian tradwife takes her wifely vocation a step farther. Rather than simply divvying up the family responsibilities along traditional lines, she embraces “biblical submission” to her husband. He’s in charge. She surrenders her will to his.
Women Have Changed. Men Have Changed
But — things change. People change. Entire societies are capable of picking themselves up and heading off in a new direction. The young fathers I know today are not a bit like the husband described in that 1987 column.
The dads I see around me today don’t help with the kids, they parent them along with the moms.
One of those fathers is my son Peter, who was a witness to the struggle Jon and I had as we made the transition from the traditional 1950s family structure I’d grown up with to the family structure I had embraced as a second-wave feminist during the 1970s — before I married Jon.
Here’s the column in question:
It’s 1987 — Mothers Are in Charge and Fathers Help
By Barbara Falconer Newhall, The Oakland Tribune, July 12, 1987
Carol calls them “the little inequities.” She is talking about the small, countless ways that men fail to notice what needs to be done for their children.
At breakfast, 2-year-old Max drops a spoon to the floor. John is reading the newspaper – he has to read it for his job.
Carol has to read the paper for her job, too. But it is she who notices that the spoon has fallen. She picks it up.
John and Carol have visitors. Max is about to walk into the living room eating a bagel slathered with cream cheese and jam.
Carol is talking to a guest. She would like to keep on talking – but jam is dripping off Max’s bagel.
A Jammy Bagel Is on Its Way to the Living Room
John, engrossed in conversation with another guest, is unaware that a jammy bagel is headed for the living room.
Carol interrupts her conversation to steer Max back to the kitchen. John keeps talking.
“It’s their coping strategy,” says Carol of today’s fathers. “They fail to notice.”
Make no mistake. “John is a saint among fathers,” she is quick to add. He does the laundry. He dresses his children. He keeps them entertained while Carol sleeps in.
Indeed, John does a good 40 percent of the child care at their house, says Carol. For that 40 percent, however he gets tremendous sympathy and help.
“When I went out of town to a union conference,” says Carol, “John got dinner invitations for a week. When he is out of town, no one thinks to invite me for dinner.”
Was I a Tradwife?
That’s because child-rearing is our job. We are in charge.
John washes his children’s clothes, but – and this is a big but – he does not buy them.
He does not haunt the flea markets for 25-cent sweatpants. He does not sort through the hand-me-downs. He does not rearrange the drawers to make room for the new clothes.
John dresses the baby, but often lets Carol choose the outfit.
He gets the overalls on, but can’t figure out how the hooks work.
He puts on the baby’s bathing suit. The straps criss-cross her chest.
He slips her into her nightshirt. The hood covers her face.
He gets it right the second time.
Is he playing dumb?
Jon Is in Charge of the Cooking
I can play dumb. In our house, Jon is in charge of the cooking. He asks me to help by breaking up the lettuce for a salad. I tear it into unmanageably large pieces.
Next time, Jon breaks up the lettuce.
The same way with kids.
We mothers read the parenting books, take the child development courses and spend long evenings on the telephone discussing separation anxiety, cradle cap and pre-reading skills with the other moms.
Baby is only days old but already we have her on the waiting list for that great nursery school over at Cal.
Summer is three months away, but it is not too soon to apply for gymnastics camp in Alameda or horse camp in Lafayette.
We relish our responsibilities.
Dads — More and More Helpful
Dads help – and they are getting more helpful all the time.
When we have an evening meeting, they agree to “babysit.” But when, at the last minute, their employers want them to work late, it is we who must come up with the child-care arrangement – spending 30 minutes of our employer’s time making phone calls.
Mothers are in charge. Fathers help. Perhaps that is why John was so annoyed when Carol complained to him about the bagel incident.
Who wants to help and then be criticized for not helping enough, or for not helping correctly?
It’s much more fun to be in charge. Men would be good at it. They would enjoy – and resent – it as much as we.
The Motherhood Role as I Have Known It
Trouble is, I’m not willing to let go of motherhood as I have known and enjoyed it. I have ceded enough of my turf as it is.
I’m willing to let Jon have the cooking all to himself.
I’m even willing – though just barely – to let Jon decide whether granola bars are appropriate school lunch box fare.
But that’s it.
Maybe Christina will be different. Maybe – in 2017 – she will let her husband decide between cloth diapers and paper, between the Montessori and the traditional nursery school, between bangs and no bangs for her daughter.
As for me, I’m about as liberated as I can get – for the time being.
Reprinted by permission. © 1987 The Oakland Tribune
Max needs to sit down at the table to eat his jammy bagel and then no one has to do anything until he complains that he has to sit down at the table to eat the bagel.
😉
You were always thinking about what you were doing and your life. I was pretty happy with mine because I could spend as much time as I wanted as a clinical psychologist and raising our children.
You were one of the lucky ones — who figured out how to have it both ways. But I wonder, could Larry do more than “help” with the children?