Have I Become a Surrendered Wife?
And can I really call myself a feminist at the same time?
When I was about 28 years old, more than a decade ago, I had a memorable conversation with one of my friends. We were roughly the same age. We both had a clutch of small children; mine at the time were aged ten, six, and two. Life for both of us was full and frantic.
My friend explained to me that every day, in the late afternoon after giving her children their dinner, she would put them straight in the bath and then change them into their pajamas. “And I get into pajamas, too!” she said. “Make sure I’m nice and comfy for the evening ahead.”
I was aghast. “But then you’re effectively saying that the day is over!” I exclaimed. “You’ve basically given up on the day before 6 pm. What about when your husband gets home? Don’t you want to have an evening with him?”
My friend looked askance. “We do have an evening,” she said. “It’s just that I’m in my PJs for it.”
I made an impassioned speech at this point. Surely, I argued, being already in pajamas took any spontaneity out of the remainder of the day? What if her husband wanted to surprise her with a babysitter and an evening at the cinema, or going out for a meal? What if she had a burst of energy and realised she quite fancied going for a swim…
