Manual

Me, age 39

I just got home from a four-day getaway in Seattle with my best friend from college. To say it was sublime is not hyperbole.

Every year, Mari and I meet somewhere different. Regardless of our destination, we call it our “mama trip” – not because we have our children in tow, but because we spoil our mama selves rotten, attending to no one else’s needs but our own. We coddle each other with as much rest and relaxation as possible (think mani/pedis, bookstores, sushi, wine, more wine, etc.). It is our valiant attempt to replenish our spirits and thus sustain ourselves through the other 361 days of the year when we’re at home.

In preparation for my four days away, I compile a comprehensive document for my husband. It is so well researched and presented, in fact, that it deserves the official name of “manual.” A whopping seven pages in length, my manual is such a work of art that it even contains attachments, footnotes, and pie-charts. Ok, I’m lying about the footnotes and pie-charts, but my manual is exceedingly meticulous, if nothing else.

Pertinent information about our children, their schedules, their extracurricular activities, and their preferred food items are highlighted in my manual, along with relevant phone numbers and a list of available pre-made dinner entrees for them to eat, purchased weeks ago at Costco and nestled in our freezer.

Let’s be honest: I know that my family is fine without me, for a few days at least. They’re not dumb. They can figure things out. But I do believe it’s better for all parties involved if I provide germane details such as when the kids need to be picked up from school, what time Owen plays soccer on Saturday morning, and where my daughters’ extra ballet tights are stored. If I don’t provide these specifics, chaos ensues. And because there’s already a high degree of chaos that inherently exists in my household, I don’t want to be the clod that adds to it. But at the same time, I find myself wondering:
 

How did I get relegated to being the domestic know-it-all?

I don’t know the answer, but I am aware that a gaping discrepancy exists between my husband and me – in spite of the fact that he does his fair share with the kids. When I depart for a measly four days, I equip him with a manual and leave the house fully stocked for any crisis that may crop up. Furthermore, while I’m away, I’m in constant communication if he needs me. For instance, just two hours after I depart for my mama trip, he texts to ask where Caroline’s jeans are located. I respond, “Where they always are. Why are you asking me this?” He texts back, “Because you have the uncanniest knack for knowing where any given item can be found in our house.” (Was I simply born being a domestic know-it-all? Or did I develop a talent for it because, God help me, there’s no other option? Either way, I did not ask for this.)  

On the flip side, when my husband prepares for his annual weeklong fishing expedition to Canada, his planning has nothing whatsoever to do with our family. He busies himself with packing lures, tents and water filters. He leaves me no manual. He leaves me no post-it note. On his way out the door, he kisses me goodbye and rattles off the phone number for his outfitter.

Do you know what an outfitter is? After my husband and his buddies drive 15 hours north into the middle of nowhere, their outfitter – a guy named Harlan – flies them on a float plane and deposits them (and their canoes and fishing tackle) on a desolate lake. I ask my husband what would happen if I really needed to talk to him while he’s gone, seeing as though cell phones don’t work up there. Blithely, he replies, “Well, Harlan would know roughly where I’ll be because we have to file a route plan beforehand. The sites where we will be camping and fishing are only a 20 minute flight from civilization, so sooner or later he might be able to track me down.”

Perhaps he’s on to something; perhaps Mari and I need to visit a remote lake in Canada for our next mama trip. 

***

Now that I’m settling back into reality, shuffling through the papers and mail that have accumulated on the kitchen counter in my absence, I find my manual. I’m glad to report that it has served its purpose. Wrinkled, dog-eared and coffee-stained, it has clearly been read (and re-read) by my husband, who successfully got the kids to and from where they needed to be without letting them go naked or hungry.     

I have long suspected that women run the world, but now I am convinced of it.