In the past I have come to a jarring, life-changing conclusion — I am not cut out to be a househusband.

Not that I ever aspired to the job, mind you, but I found myself thrust into it by circumstances beyond my control.

My bride recently was diagnosed with a detached retina and had to have a procedure done on one of her beautiful hazel eyes. A bubble was injected into her eye to force the retina back up against the cell wall. I know, it hurts just to think about it.

Recuperation required her to lie on her left side virtually nonstop, with only brief breaks to use the bathroom, bathe or eat. This left me with all the responsibility of caring for the household.

I know, I laughed too, at first. I’m not laughing anymore.

Immediately after bringing her home, I began planning meals for the coming days, which means I dragged out all the takeout menus I could find and stocked up on frozen pizza and canned soup.

The first night she wasn’t supposed to eat solid food, so I brought home a burger and fries for me, a milk shake for her. This cooking stuff’s not so tough, I thought.

The next night was takeout Mexican food. This was the first time we had real food, on real dishes.

I always wondered why she took so long in the kitchen after every meal, while I was lounging in the recliner trying to recall how the TV remote works. Now I know, those dishes don’t pick themselves up, clean themselves off and plunk themselves down in the dishwasher.

The leftovers must be dealt with, as well. They have to be bagged or wrapped, marked and properly stored in the fridge or the freezer.

Then we were faced with a crisis. Dirty clothes were piling up in the hamper, clean clothes were disappearing from drawers and closets. I gently tiptoed to her side. “I have some bad news,” I said. “If this goes on much longer, I will have to do laundry.” I swear I heard her sob.

My poor bride could do nothing for herself, of course. Thus it seems every time I sat down, she needed something — water, a blanket, the TV remote. She reminded me of me.

After a time, friends began bringing in food, and a miracle happened — her sister came to visit for a couple of days. She was a Godsend, allowing me to go back to being a piece of overstuffed furniture. Do you know the only difference between me and a slug? I don’t leave a slimy trail behind me when I move — most of the time.

But then her sister left and I had to go back to keeping house. Cooking, I found out, is a long, difficult process. I think it was all those trips to the living room. Where’s this? Where’s that? How long should I cook this? Does this broccoli look OK? If it’s not broccoli, what the heck is it? Should this be warmed up in the microwave? Refresh my memory, the microwave is that black thing on the kitchen counter, right?

Warm up the food. Set the table. Pour the drinks. Whew. Finally it was time to eat.

In mere minutes the meal was finished, and it was time to go back to work. Clear the table, rinse the dishes, load the dishwasher, put the leftovers away, wipe everything down. By the time I finished I collapsed in my chair, only to have her ask me to bring her something else.

It wasn’t fair! I worked all day, then had to come home and work all evening. I expressed my displeasure to my bride, only to hear her reply “Welcome to my world.”

Thus I have vowed to never again take her for granted, to never again fail to help her prepare and/or clean up after meals.

Of course I’ll revert immediately to my slothful ways once she returns to full health. It is inevitable. I am, after all, the male of the species. But at least I will have more empathy and appreciation for her efforts.

I still have not done laundry, however. Every time I bring it up she gives me a look that chills my blood.



Mullin is senior writer of the News & Eagle. E-mail him at jmullin@enidnews.com.