Just mention ‘dishes’ . . .

Press, 12 July 1984, Page 8

Just mention ‘dishes’ . . .

"Parents have a right to expect a reasonable return for their labours. Having acted for years as unpaid housemaid, cleaner, nightwatchman, valet, banker, laundress, sports coach, guidance counsellor, odd-job man and general dogsbody, they are entitled to expect you occasionally to put out the milk bottles." If there’s one thing destined to clear a room of teen-agers in record time, it’s the mention of work.

The “help around the house” variety of work. The work they regard as lazing about all day doing you own thing, until they are invited to contribute.

Then it’s a general exodus to their bedrooms and that wonderful stop-gap called homework. I can yell myself hoarse, trying to compete with the TV or record player. “Don’t they ever give you any homework at that school?”

Then that magic word, “dishes” and they just fade away like ghosts who have suddenly dematerialised. Mind you, on the odd occasions like Mother’s Day, my birthday or when I’ve made them feel guilty enough to agree to do the dishes, I begin to wonder whether it’s worth the effort.

It begins with the debate about who’s turn it is to do what.

“A” sloshes away at the washing with much muttering, only to find that “B” leaves them in the rack to drain, ready for “C” to put away.

This leads to further muttering about “B”. Of course, “C” may have already decided that the call of homework is stronger than the wait for the dishes to dry, and

quietly disappears. Is it any wonder nobody wants to make the first move? And no points for guessing who does the final clean-up.

But I do understand. When I was a teen-ager, the first sound of water on dishes was enough to drive me to the bathroom with a good book, and there I stayed till I though it safe enough to venture out.

While we’re still on the subject of dishes, the way the family can empty a shelf full of glasses, you’d think they had been crawling through the desert for a week. Then suddenly: “Hey, Mum. What’s happened to all the glasses?” “They’re in the sink. You could try washing one.” “No, don’t think I’ll bother. I don’t feel thirsty any more.” When it comes to putting out the milk bottles the pattern is very similar, with one small difference. Just substitute slippers for home-

work. “Now who’s going to take out the milk bottles?” “Sorry, I’ve just changed out of my shoes.” Guess who goes down in the dark to collect them? Dad, of course. “There might be someone lurking in the bushes!” It doesn’t seem to matter if the bread-winner gets clobbered. Besides the Parents’ Charter, I also have stuck on the wall a newspaper cutting titled, “A housewife’s worth.” I bring it to everyone’s attention at regular intervals, but they all seem remarkably unimpressed. It seems that in England, Mrs Pam Rich was chosen by a computer as a typical housewife, and an insurance company did an estimate of her worth based on what her husband would have to pay others for the work normally done by his wife. The insurance company estimated her weekly wage

at $5OO, equivalent to the salary of a bishop, a fire chief, or an army sergeant major. And that without overtime at week-ends, and holidays. As I said, it impresses no-one. “After all you didn’t have to get married and have a family. You did make the choice!” This is usually followed up with: “I don’t think I’ll bother to get married and have a family. I couldn’t bear all this housework and making meals.” Well thanks. I wish I’d known that 20 years ago! Gardens are places of enjoyment, but the average teen-ager has some strange idea that soil is dug and lawns mowed by some wierd creatures who appear when no-one is around. As for. garden tools — well, there, I think the fault is ours. We’ve taken them to so many little local museums, they know for a fact that tools are relics from the past and hung on walls to be admired. We’re just lucky enough to have some of these relics hanging on our garage wall! Well, by now the sink will be piled up with another load of glasses, and it’s time for me to bring out daughter’s Mother’s Day present, a beautifully handmade token, offering 10 hours of work around the house. Perhaps I made the right choice after all.