NYT Mother Essay

[Deleted]

This woman needs to familiarize herself with Grubhub and STFU.  At the end she acts like she "realizes" her SAH husband doesn't need to watch the kid and make dinner every night (especially when she refuses to eat boxed pasta) but I don't buy her authenticity.  WDMMMT?

parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/10/26/dont-expect-dinner/

‘Don’t Expect Dinner.’

By Suzanne Cope


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my cell phone light up from where it was nestled in the open front pocket of my bag. I debated checking it. My students were working in small groups and probably wouldn’t notice. And I did have a 6-month-old at home, I rationalized. But I resisted. I had already scolded a number of freshmen for texting, even though it was only the third week of the semester.

Distracted, I finished the lesson, reaching for my phone before my students were even out the door. As I guessed, the call had been from my husband. I played the voice mail message, the sounds of a crying baby the opening refrain. And then Steve’s voice: “Don’t expect dinner.” Click. My finger hovered above the “call back” button, but what was there to say? I looked up to the stream of students entering the room for my final class of the day and stuffed my phone deep into my bag.

The cultural conversation about balancing work and family began before I even had a timeline for when I wanted to have a child. Yet, in my mid-30s and wondering when my desire to start a family would overtake my desire for professional advancement, I still felt the tension acutely.

When I did get pregnant, somewhat unexpectedly, I struggled with reconciling the self that I knew (career driven, hard working) that was being overtaken by the version of me that the public now perceived (over-tired, family-focused). Of course when Rocco was born, little of this mattered, and, due to lucky timing — I had the summer off before we moved to Brooklyn and I started a new position — and my husband’s nontraditional career, we spent a blissful six months adjusting to parenting together. But in September, my role as our family’s breadwinner was reprised.

Perhaps by some people’s accounts I am a feminist success story. I have a full-time professorship and am juggling multiple writing projects while my husband, a musician and songwriter, stays home with our baby boy. My husband supports my academic and creative career, usually drops off the laundry, and often does the grocery shopping. I am on campus three days a week, and on the days that I am home he watches our son while I head to the local coffee shop for a couple hours of uninterrupted work.

In the afternoons, I take Rocco on walks around our Brooklyn neighborhood while my husband works on his own projects. Sometimes there is a late afternoon family outing to the park or a museum, sometimes not. By dinner we reconvene, and I often cook, something I enjoy. Even as I wish I had many more hours in the day that I could fill with research and writing and going to the gym, I also feel as if I have enough time with my family, enough for my work and, well, almost enough for me.

The first weeks of the semester were easy. Steve had lovely late summer weather to navigate our new neighborhood and was able to get recording done during Rocco’s naps. Rocco was asleep by the time I got home at 8 p.m. and Steve had dinner on the table. On the first days I was home with Rocco, I surprised myself by asking Steve whether Rocco liked the pureed peas Steve had offered him for the first time. It was a bit strange not being the one who knew this detail about my infant, but it was a small price to pay to keep ahead in my career. Then on Monday of my third week, I came home exhausted with my first stack of papers and found Steve sipping a beer with a frown, a sauce-stained dish in front of him. For the first time since the semester began, I came home to nothing bubbling on the stove.

I paused, understanding the full cultural implications of the question I was deciding whether to ask. But I was hungry.

“So, um, did you make me anything for dinner?”

It turned out that Rocco had a particularly challenging day. And then Steve made himself pasta and sauce from a can – “bachelor food” as we called it in our house, since it was a meal Steve only made for himself when I was out of town.
“Why didn’t you make some for me?” I asked.

“Because I know you don’t like it.” Which was true. I preferred homemade sauce and reserved my pasta eating for Italian trattorias. But still, I was hungry.

Maybe it was my 13-hour day catching up with me. I was still the one who got up with Rocco and fed him his breakfast before I handed him off to my husband, still sleeping in bed, when I left around 9 a.m. But I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to be mad about this absence of dinner. My options for take-out were limited in our neighborhood, and what we had at home took at least 30 minutes of preparation.

“O.K., well, I, uh, don’t expect you to make me dinner,” I began, feeling the weight of my words for all stay-at-home and second-shifting parents in the world. “But,” and here I tried very hard to put myself in the shoes of both a parent who had been in the company of a crying baby as well as one who had faced 80 college freshmen and survived an hour and a half commute each way, “if you aren’t going to make me food could you please just let me know? So I can grab something on the way home.”

On one hand, I didn’t want to ask for too much, as I couldn’t help but identify with the rhetoric of supporting the intensity of a stay-at-home parent’s job. On the other hand, should the feminist in me insist that dinner-making be part of the deal?

What I did know was that the stance I took on dinner would have larger repercussions for our relationship and family roles, so I let it go. I ate yogurt and asked about his day. Instead of packing leftovers for lunch, I made sure I had cash for the cafeteria.

So when I heard his message from the next day, I was, on one hand, pleased that he had heard my request, no matter the subtext. But I was also a bit annoyed. Maybe I should, like so many male breadwinners before me, expect dinner. Or was accepting our modern gender roles meant that I had no right to expect anything?

When I got off the subway an hour later, I checked my phone preparing to forage the neighborhood for food. Instead I saw a text from Steve: “Dinner’s on the table, see you soon.”

Ten minutes later I walked in the door. Steve was smiling, if a little ragged looking. Rocco had cried for about an hour, but then fell asleep. Quinoa and roasted vegetables filled two plates, the half-empty glass of wine in front of him softening the tension of the previous few hours.

“Just something I threw together,” Steve said with a half smile. “I know you had a long day.”

And as I sat down to Steve filling my wine glass, a warm homemade meal in front of me, I didn’t think about whether I deserved this meal, or whose job it would be to clean the dishes afterward. Steve’s job was to care for our son, not for me, I realized. But being part of a partnership meant caring for each other, not out of guilt and not out of duty, but out of love and in whatever way made sense.

[Brie]

Cool story, bro.

[Deleted]

Oct 28, 2014 13:22:10 GMT -5 @this said:

Oct 28, 2014 13:14:49 GMT -5 @notquiteblushing said:

Of course when Rocco was born...

This is when I stopped reading. LOL

Oh Rocco isn't so bad.  Maybe they're Italian?

But I detest how she tries to paint this as a sensitive topic in feminism when really it's about her being too good to nuke some Stouffer's Mac and Cheese like grown adults with children do when there's no dinner and you worked late.

[Deleted]

Oct 28, 2014 13:25:34 GMT -5 @this said:

Oct 28, 2014 13:24:21 GMT -5 @notquiteblushing said:

Oh Rocco isn't so bad.  Maybe they're Italian?

But I detest how she tries to paint this as a sensitive topic in feminism when really it's about her being too good to nuke some Stouffer's Mac and Cheese like grown adults with children do when there's no dinner and you worked late.

I don't even think it's bad. I was just like OF COURSE THE BABY'S NAME IS ROCCO AND THEY LIVE IN BROOKLYN. lol

And of course her husband is a songwriter/musician (cough cough unemployed).  I picture him all stringy hair walking down the street looking confused with the baby in a Bjorn. Maybe I'll shop for records today.  Maybe I'll cook some kale.

[countthestars]

I feel sorry for her husband.

[ssmjlm]

I wonder what kind of professor she is...




to be so fucking clueless.

[bearbaby]

Um...

[ladygrey]

Quinoa and roasted veggies for dinner. Of course.

[zeewifeandmama]

Ugh I just want to tell her to shut up.

[bearbaby]

Oct 28, 2014 13:28:00 GMT -5 @this said:

Okay I powered through reading "little Rocco" twelve hundred times. I pretty much hate this lady. And at the risk of engaging in the martyr olympics, this sounds downright leisurely and in stark contrast with our lives of two parents working fairly inflexible strict 9-5 jobs.

I started to weep her a river when she stated she manages to get herself out of bed to feed Precious Rocco breakfast of strained kale leaves before she departs...at NINE.

SOMEONE GIVE THIS WOMAN AN AWARD.

Oh, I'm sorry, that sound you just heard was my eyeballs rolling right out of my head...one second...

[Deleted]

Oct 28, 2014 13:31:26 GMT -5 @vicmo said:

I don't ... get the point? You work late sometimes and never communicate with your sahh about whether he's making dinner (or, make it HIS job to tell you if he is cooking you dinner) and bitch when he has a hard day and eats food that is beneath you? OK.

People make fun of us, but having a meal plan (that we come up with together, taking into account our weekly schedule) really simplifies our lives.

I think the NYT is profiling families who balance work and families so this is just one story.  A stupid one.  Wait til Rocco is mobile.  Ronzoni is going to start looking amazing!

[havarti]

Oct 28, 2014 13:24:21 GMT -5 @notquiteblushing said:

Oct 28, 2014 13:22:10 GMT -5 @this said:

This is when I stopped reading. LOL

Oh Rocco isn't so bad.  Maybe they're Italian?

But I detest how she tries to paint this as a sensitive topic in feminism when really it's about her being too good to nuke some Stouffer's Mac and Cheese like grown adults with children do when there's no dinner and you worked late.

She can't eat cereal like the rest of us?

and Rocco+Brooklyn+Quinoa=   

(Even though I don't have a problem with those things individually.)

[bearbaby]

@this - did you just google "confused Brooklyn hipster?"

Because L. O. L.

[thebreakfastclub]

Her schedule sounds amazing.

Also, wouldn't it be awesome if her husband was in a Journey cover band?

[bearbaby]

Oct 28, 2014 13:36:12 GMT -5 @this said:

Oct 28, 2014 13:35:21 GMT -5 bearbaby said:

@this - did you just google "confused Brooklyn hipster?"

Because L. O. L.

I tried a bunch of combinations, but "dirty hipster beard" got me where I needed to go.

THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.

[Deleted]

Omfg order a pizza & STFU!

[stacyb1983]

FFS. This is so contrived. How about you think about your spouse as a human being who maybe is having a hard day.

This is why people are so confused about what feminism is. Feminism means equal rights and opportunities, equal pay for equal work. Your husband making you dinner is not feminism. Decide what works in your house, leave feminism out of it.

[dulcemariamar]

WTF.... Dont you have stuff in your house to make eggs or a sandwich?

She sounds really really annoying.

[satsuma]

Oct 28, 2014 13:46:31 GMT -5 stacyb1983 said:

FFS. This is so contrived. How about you think about your spouse as a human being who maybe is having a hard day.

This is why people are so confused about what feminism is. Feminism means equal rights and opportunities, equal pay for equal work. Your husband making you dinner is not feminism. Decide what works in your house, leave feminism out of it.

That annoyed me to no end. The NYT has made it a habit to profile the most insufferable, least sympathetic people ever. 

[jackpackage]

OMG, I didn't even finish because I was screaming at her to make a fucking pb&j and STFU!

[shelbyann]

Forage the neighborhood for food? Good god lady, get a grip.

[Deleted]

Oct 28, 2014 13:51:16 GMT -5 jackpackage said:

OMG, I didn't even finish because I was screaming at her to make a fucking pb&j and STFU!

I'll just make sure you see this part then:

I ate yogurt and asked about his day. Instead of packing leftovers for lunch, I made sure I had cash for the cafeteria.

THE STRUGGLE IS REAL!

[dancingirl21]

So annoying. Quinoa and roasted vegetables? Of course. Poor little lamb that her husband won't make her homemade pasta sauce and pasta every night.

Also this is one of those stories that I thought, "Huh. I wonder what the point of that was", after I read it.

[meij]

Brooklyn- 2pts
Musician husband-1pt
Quinoa -4pts
SAHD- 3pts
Rocco- 2pts
Taking work to do in a coffee shop-1pt

Hipster scorecard- 13pts

I am subtracting one point for no mention of husband soothing baby to sleep by strumming his guitar.

[blueberry10]

Ugh. I hurt myself from rolling my eyes so hard when I read "I preferred homemade sauce and reserved my pasta eating for Italian trattorias." Get over yourself, honey. Ya know what? Sometimes you just have to adjust your expectations.

[catsarecute]

Oct 28, 2014 13:57:26 GMT -5 meij said:

Brooklyn- 2pts
Musician husband-1pt
Quinoa -4pts
SAHD- 3pts
Rocco- 2pts
Taking work to do in a coffee shop-1pt

Hipster scorecard- 13pts

I am subtractin one point for no mention of husband soothing baby to sleep by strumming his guitar.

Oh but you know it happens.

[YahYahs]

Holy hell. Not everyone needs to blog their boring lives for all to see. Why did this story require multiple MULTIPLE multiple paragraphs to tell?
Also, she's a female chauvinist and I feel sorry for her husband. And little Rocco

[rex]

this woman in unbearable. stfu and make a frozen dinner like the rest of us.

[jackpackage]

Oct 28, 2014 13:57:26 GMT -5 meij said:

Brooklyn- 2pts
Musician husband-1pt
Quinoa -4pts
SAHD- 3pts
Rocco- 2pts
Taking work to do in a coffee shop-1pt

Hipster scorecard- 13pts

I am subtractin one point for no mention of husband soothing baby to sleep by strumming his guitar.

Even her last name is ironic in relation to the story. Cope. 

[ssmjlm]

I started perusing the comments.


Some are just as bad as the story piece.