New math: when 70-30 is 50-50

I married Andy for many reasons, but mostly because he’s not a typical guy. He finds hunting stories loathsomely dull and wouldn’t set foot in a Hooters even if the food was good. Or so he claims.

I’m not exactly a Cosmo girl myself. I have never had a manicure or pedicure, don’t pluck my eyebrows, and think Martha Stewart deserves her own special ring in Hell – a ring decorated with mismatched hand-me-down sofas (I have the perfect set!), wooden tables with water stains, and a floor covered in orphan Legos.

In our newlywed days, Andy and I did almost everything together, from pedaling away the miles on long bike rides, to watching movies (except those starring Julia Roberts). We even shopped together, sharing the same disdain of malls. Planning was easy. Whatever one of us wanted to do, the other did too. Mostly. 

So when Samantha was born six years ago, it came as quite a shock that our roles suddenly and sharply differed. Yes, I had some inkling over the nine-month gestation (actually, ten) that things would be different. For starters, I grew huge, topping out just 20 pounds shy of my 200-pound, 6 foot, four inch husband. I no longer walked, I lumbered. While Andy went on long bike rides, I sat on the couch and sulked, only managing a short walk (waddle) in the hours he was gone and thinking surely when the baby was born, our roles would equalize again. Ironically, my wedding ring no longer fit.

Five days after Sam was born, Andy left for work, his paternity leave over. Or so he declared. I stood at the door in a baggy t-shirt, two wet spots growing on the front, my rear-end filling out my elasticized-waist pants, Sam wide awake in my arms. What would this little baby and I do all day? We sat on the couch for hours, Samantha sipping slowly as if my breast were her own personal cocktail party while I stared into space (reading a magazine was anatomically impossible). When Sam wasn’t bellied up to the bar, we walked. I felt like Forest Gump, not so much walking away from something as trying to walk back into it.

I soon became insanely jealous of Andy’s 45-minute commute to work. He could listen to NPR uninterrupted, spend eight hours at work conversing with fellow adults, and use his brain as if it hadn’t been blown to bits by hormones, anxiety, tedium, and constant interruptions. His body hadn’t changed. He could still ride his bike at the same speed he always had. He even joined a tennis league.

That had been my life too. Now who was I? An overweight, overwrought, overtired woman incapable of speaking in complete sentences and who broke out into tears at the slightest provocation, like not being able to find the right sippy cup valves at the supermarket. Work for Andy must have been a relief, a step back into what life had been, a break from this creature who had taken over his wife, this creature who looked at him, jealousy brewing behind a pathetic mask that had a passive aggressive look of, “Why won’t you help me?”

No wonder he took up tennis.

Since those first months, we have taken many steps, collectively and separately, and just as many missteps. It has taken several years to understand and control my jealousy, trying to come to terms with the root causes — the misguided or unfilled expectations that led to it and the fact that, despite my feminist insistence that men and women are alike, we’re not. What I see as a 70-30 split of housework and parenting, Andy sees as 50-50.

Jealousy still rears its ugly head, and Andy calls me on it. I am not so quick to call him on his missteps, for confrontation upsets the domestic apple cart. And rather than dealing with it, I scurry about picking up the apples as I fume and ruminate. And then I write, first disparaging Andy, then realizing that I should disparage myself in equal share.

I must confess that I’m selfishly jealous of his tennis because it doesn’t include me, and that despite my occasional threats of getting a real job, I’m happy to work from home. Were it the other way around, our house might resemble a cross between Circuit City and Toys-R-Us, a complicated mix of plastic children’s toys, high-definition TVs, and a remote control that works every appliance except the washing machine. In the fridge? Milk and beer.

Instead, the refrigerator is mostly full of vegetables, as well as milk and beer. The washer runs perhaps too regularly, and I sit here writing blog entries.

It’s cheaper than couples counseling.