WHEN people ask what I do for a living, I reply I am a writer.
But, in reality, my job is EVERYTHING. Cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, school admin — and so much more.
I pick up dirty plates from my kids’ rooms, make their beds and hang up their clothes.
Yes, they will make their beds if told, but now I’ve decided enough is enough. I’m 47 and juggling my job and running a house is hard work.
So when I heard about new Channel 5 show Mums On Strike, it inspired me to have a go. Here’s what happened . . .
I GET the kids up at 9am (it’s the summer holidays) and announce: “I am on strike.”
“What?” they chorus, rubbing their eyes. “Strike,” I reply.
Adriana, ten, scowls. Alex, 15, shrugs.
Rather than bringing them breakfast, I make myself a coffee and sit with my feet up.
“Am I not having breakfast?” asks Adriana at around 10am. “You’re welcome to help yourself,” I say with a smile.
Their musician dad Cornel, 44, is out at work. Adriana gets herself some cereal, then walks away looking confused.
I do feel a bit guilty but this is day one. I need to stand firm.
Once they have both fed themselves — Alex eats a bowl of granola — I don’t clear away their bowls.
Alex’s is left on the kitchen table and Adriana’s remains on her bedroom floor.
I hear them brushing their teeth but instead of rushing in afterwards to wipe up their toothpaste spit, I leave it. This is hard. I hate that in the sink.
Cornel comes back at lunchtime and finds the kids watching TV.
“Where’s lunch?” Adriana asks.
Cornel finds me scrolling on my phone. “I’m on strike, remember?” I say. He rolls his sleeves up and makes them some lunch.
The sun comes out so I sit outside with a cold drink.
By 4pm I am usually planning dinner. Not today.
When they come in at 5pm to an empty dinner table, the kids groan.
“So the strike includes no dinner?” Alex asks.
I confirm and decide to go on a leisurely walk while Cornel sorts food out. Something from the freezer, no doubt. When I get in I make myself a quick salad.
At bedtime, instead of loading the dishwasher, I have a long, hot bath and then do a self-care routine involving a face mask and serums, then hop into bed to read my book.
I don’t smell of cooking. I don’t have dry hands from washing up. This is nice.
HUBBY is at work all day so it’s just me and the kids.
They ask about breakfast and I remind them I’m on strike.
“What, even today?” Adriana asks.
“Yes, even today,” I reply.
“Surely that’s illegal,” she mutters. But she’s learnt to open the cupboard and get her own cereal.
It’s a lovely day and ordinarily I’d take them somewhere like the beach. I’m annoyed because I’d love to go, but a strike is a strike.
Alex goes out to meet friends. Adriana comes in the garden with me and lies next to me on a sunlounger.
“Can I have a drink?” she asks.
“Yep, in the fridge,” I reply.
She gets one — and brings me a glass of lemonade too. Maybe this is working? Again, I don’t make dinner. Cornel texts me to check I am still on strike.
And when I give the affirmative, he arrives home with two huge bags of McDonald’s for the kids.
“Yes!” they cry.
They gather round him like he’s the hero and scowl at me. I feel bad. I am definitely the enemy tonight.
How can a striker compare with a McDonald’s?
I’VE got a spa voucher from my birthday so I decide to use it, as Cornel is home.
I spend the morning at a local hotel having a facial and neck massage. I then sit by the pool.
I check my phone for messages, but there are none. Maybe they can fend for themselves after all?
Still, I can’t quite relax. My mind is working overtime. I know that toothpaste-spit-sink is going to look horrendous by now.
I know there are plates festering in the kids’ rooms.
As for laundry, I normally do a minimum of one wash a day. I’ve not done any for three days and I know no one will have noticed.
Not until they run out of pants, anyway.
When I get home, the kids are out. A note reads: “Out for food.”
The kitchen sink is full of dirty cutlery no one has considered putting in the dishwasher.
The eldest, though, has made his bed and hung up his clothes. Adriana’s duvet is draped in what looks like an attempt at bedmaking.
But the fridge is empty (I’ve not been shopping) so I order a Domino’s pizza just for me — a total treat, as I never do this — and I eat it on the sofa alone. Bliss!
When the kids get in, they see the Domino’s box and look confused.
“Yes. I had a pizza, just for me!”
Adriana shakes her head and looks concerned.
BY now everyone has the gist of my strike. They get up, make their own breakfasts and, shock, make their beds.
Adriana brings a few plates down from her room and puts them in the sink. Then Cornel asks: “Are we going to put the washing on?”
He shows me the washing basket overflowing on to the bathroom floor.
“We’ve run out of socks,” he says.
“Better put a wash on then,” I reply.
He starts to carry miscellaneous clothes downstairs in his arms — colours, whites, pants, towels.
I have to tell him to do whites separately and delicates on a different cycle. He manages that and puts a white wash on. Later I hear whispering upstairs.
Then the three of them come down and say: “We’re taking you for lunch.”
We go to a local cafe where we all have food and chat. The subject of my strike is the elephant in the room but no one acknowledges it.
I definitely feel less work-weary. However, my anxiety about that wretched stained sink and the fact that only one wash has been put on in days makes me feel a bit sick.
I’m close to giving up but it’s only three days to go. I have to be strong.
THE kids are out with friends and Cornel is at work. I notice that the dishwasher is on, the kitchen sink is clean and I can hear the washing machine whirring.
There’s a pile of clean, dry laundry on the sofa (presumably for me to sort, but I won’t) and beds are made.
This is a vast improvement on daily life and I actually feel quite proud of them. But the bane of my life, the bathroom, sends my anxiety rocketing.
The sink looks like something from a doss house.
The shower has clumps of hair by the plug hole and caps are left off shampoos.
I work every day AND I give up a portion of my afternoon to prep food. Why can’t he do that too?
The mirror is spattered with white flecks from toothpaste and the toilet has not been cleaned in days. I take a deep breath, walk out and close the door behind me.
In the early evening both kids come home and Cornel comes in, brandishing a Chinese takeaway.
“You’re undermining my strike with takeaway food,” I say, angrily.
He shrugs: “It’s just quicker and easier, plus I’ve been at work.”
But I work every day AND I give up a portion of my afternoon to prep food.
Why can’t he do that too?
It makes me angry so I stomp upstairs for a bath while they tuck in to chow mein.
In the evening I go to a friend’s house — who is also a mum — and tell her of my strike.
She explains that I’ve made things worse for myself. The backlog of cleaning and laundry will be worse after this, she reckons.
But if I give in now, what does that say? So I stick to my guns.
BY now everyone gets up, makes their beds and prepares their own breakfast.
I do feel a bit guilty eating toast and drinking coffee I’ve made just for me. But I am so close to completing my strike.
It’s the weekend so Cornel suggests a beach day. Normally I would be the one to pop out and buy beach-friendly snacks and drinks. I also pack the blankets, swimwear and sun cream.
Not this time.
“What do I need to do?” Cornel asks. I cheat a bit and tell him but don’t DO anything.
He goes to the shop for the snacks and then packs the bags.
We spend the day on nearby Bournemouth beach.
Is it their fault or mine we have this whole set-up where I am the one who does everything?
For the first time it’s not me dishing out food and snacks while everyone else lies around. Instead, I lie down and cover my face with my straw hat while they decide who eats what.
I then go for a swim alone in the sea. When I gaze back at the shore, a pang of guilt hits me. I see my family — the three people I love most in the world — struggling to find the sun cream and working out whose towel is whose. And I feel a burst of love for them.
Is it their fault or mine we have this whole set-up where I am the one who does everything?
We head home and I am shocked to find Cornel has done a full shop and makes us all some salad, potatoes and salmon.
The kids actually clear their plates away and take them to the dishwasher. I go to bed feeling content.
IT’S the last day of my strike. Improvements: They are tidying their rooms, bringing plates down, loading the dishwasher and making their own breakfasts.
Cornel is planning meals and cooking. The only thing that is driving me mad is the bathroom and the laundry pile.
Cornel seems to think one wash is enough when I have to do at least one a day to stay on top of it.
I decide to make a statement. I tip the laundry basket all over the floor. There is so much stuff, you cannot open the bathroom door.
He gets the hint and puts several washes on — and in colours, delicates and whites, as I hoped.
But the sink of shame remains. It now looks yellow.
This is my hardest test yet. The rest is getting better but this bathroom is driving me insane.
I finally erupt and tell my family.
I explain they’ve done very well but the sink has to change.
Cornel cleans the sink until it shines, then the shower, and does the loo, too.
Adriana actually volunteers to mop the floor — which she enjoys!
Finally, on day seven of my strike, my bathroom shines again.
GOING on strike in the school holidays is not for the faint-hearted.
Your kids are there all the time, eating, making mess and needing things.
There were times when I wanted to give up and times when I felt tremendously guilty.
But I am glad I stuck with it. “I see how much you do now, Mummy,” Adriana told me.
Alex nodded.
Since the strike, they are picking up their towels and actually eating downstairs – probably because it’s easier to get to the dishwasher.
But it’s brought us closer together. Cornel has taken more of an interest in meal planning.
And when I did cook that first meal after the strike, the gratitude in my kids’ eyes said it all.
But I’ve still got PTSD from that vile bathroom sink.
So I won’t be doing this again any time soon.
