Servidora

Me, age 39

 

I’m having lunch with my friend Margaret, who is telling me about the foreign exchange student she hosted this summer. I think welcoming a foreign exchange student into one’s home is commendable, but when you’re the mother of four kids, it’s downright heroic. I try to express my admiration, but Margaret waves me off.

 

“I have to tell you about Javi from northern Spain ,” she says, referring to the student himself. “Javi’s family has a nanny and a housekeeper, and it sounds like the housekeeper does all the cooking. Javi’s mother doesn’t work, and she doesn’t drive either because she says it’s too much responsibility with her four boys in the car.”

 

My jaw is starting to fall into my bowl of crimini mushroom soup. Margaret goes on, “They live in a five-bedroom apartment, so they have no need for lawn care. They often eat meals at their country club, and they also spend a lot of time at their grandmother’s house, where there’s yet another housekeeper who cooks.”

 

“So what does Javi’s mom do all day?” I ask. Margaret has no clue. We cannot fathom the existence of this mysterious mother from northern Spain, who presumably has ample time to sit on her couch and eat proverbial bonbons.  

 

“What does Javi think of you?” I ask. Lacking the live-in help to which Javi is accustomed, Margaret must seem as alien to him as his mother seems to us.   

 

“Well, all of his clothes were definitely ironed when he arrived, and they were definitely wrinkled when he left. But he made no comment to me about what I do – or don’t do, in this case – around the house,” Margaret says. I nod my head in understanding. Ironing kids’ clothes is not on my radar either. There are too many other things to do.

 

It’s funny that Margaret and I are having this conversation, because lately my nine-year-old daughters have been complaining about their own household chores. Just last week, for example, I asked them to strip their beds so I could wash their sheets; in response, they gave me serious attitude, whining, “You make us do so much work, Mom. It’s like we’re your servants.”

 

“Really?!” I fancied saying to them (but didn’t). “Allow me to walk you through the innumerable mind-numbing duties required of me daily, none of which I am compensated or acknowledged for – unless there’s no clean underwear in your dresser or fresh fruit in the fridge. Then I get an earful.”

 

I can’t expect my daughters to appreciate all the work that goes into being a mother, so I don’t engage them in my repartee. Instead, I toss their sheets in the washing machine and start making breakfast. Taped to the inside of one of my kitchen cabinets is a clipping from Real Simple magazine that provides the validation I and so many other mothers need, whether they stay at home or are employed full-time. In fact, I have practically memorized the text because I gaze at it every time I grab a stack of plates, like now:

 

$112,962

The yearly salary a 2012 stay-at-home mom would earn (that is, if she were paid), as determined by the career-advice website Salary.com. The income was calculated by combining the average wages, plus overtime, for the jobs a mom typically performs, including laundress, janitor, driver, cook, facilities manager, psychologist, and CEO of the household.

 

***

 

As Margaret and I finish up our anything-but-dull lunch, she offers one last nugget of information about Javi. “He did say that he likes my cooking,” Margaret admits. I’m not surprised, because Margaret is a marvelous cook on top of everything else.

 

We aren’t paid for any of the work we do in our homes, but I’m confident if you pitted Margaret – or me, or any of my fellow mom friends – against Javi’s mother and her entire household staff, we would win hands-down. I’d put my euros on it.