Don’t Be Jealous

This guy met all his deadlines and look at him. Don’t be like this guy.

Well, I did reach a very desirable milestone last night. I finished—no scare quotes—my draft (not the final thing, but much much closer). Every single little one falls into the word count, and they are reasonably sort of distributed up and down the Bible. I think for people who really love the first book, they might be seriously annoyed me with for changing so much. But if you’ve never had a copy before, you’ll probably survive. As I said, disappointing people is my impactful spiritual gifting.

So I’m having a day off before I go back in and mess around with it some more. I’m gonna sit on my glorious porch, probably, and stare in the middle distance. And also, in order to feel human, say one or two things about this piece, which I have only skimmed because I don’t really care that much, but sort of? That’s what this blog is for, for me to say stuff about stuff without thinking about it too too much.

So anyway, and others have noticed it all the way along this coronavirus reality, men in social isolation are more “productive” than women. More papers are being published by male academics than by female. And many people noticing this phenomenon are freaking out. How can this be, they cry, while the women who are blowing by their deadlines roll their eyes and pick up another sock off the floor. Honestly, this falls under the category of trying to understand why people with longer legs get where they are going faster than people with short legs.

I’m not here to talk about the unfairness of women’s lives in comparison to men. I’m here to remind us all that the western work ideal/expectation is absolutely insane. I had forgotten this myself, but now that my parents are here in my house, I am remembering that the kind of life they have always lived, shaped by the very different rhythms of Africa (which I am not here to idealize), and which I lived unquestioned until I think I probably got Facebook, is much more realistic. It includes elements like this:

Sitting down to eat three meals.

Taking the trouble cook those meals and clean them up (think Little House on the Prairie here).

Having to stop everything in the hour before twilight to make sure all the lamps are filled.

Having to haul water in from the well in the morning.

Stopping in the middle of the day to rest because of the intense heat.

Having to spend a whole day on laundry (again with the Little House on the Prairie).

Taking a walk in the evening mainly to run into neighbors and friends and hear the news.

Going to bed after an hour of reading for the conservation of kerosene and flashlight batteries.

All of which can be gathered under the heading: You have to fit “productive” work time around the needs of the body because otherwise you’ll die of hunger or a snake bite.

As you can imagine, children naturally fit in, and more happily so, around the household tasks that keep body and soul together. It is easier to cook with children around, and to do laundry, and to sweep the floor (exasperating maybe, but possible) than to sit up here in the attic isolated, trying to finish this wretched project, shouting at people to leave me alone. Indeed, the only reason our household hasn’t completely come unglued as I’ve hidden to work is that my mom has taken over the practical considerations of life. We are full rather than starving, we are clothed rather than naked. As soon as I push send on this, I’m taking over from her so she can go do the pile of work that is still there. And this includes the men of the house taking their turns cooking and other household chores.

It’s not a man-woman thing, it’s a life thing. It takes time to live in a body. And if you add children in, their bodies matter too. The fact that we can outsource so much—childcare, children’s education, farming, cooking, laundry—has let average people develop and be exhausted by unreasonable expectations about what is good, how “productive” work fits in, and what they ought to be able to accomplish. I wish you could have seen the shock in the eyes of my parents when it dawned on them what I think I ought to be able to do in an average week. I can tell they think I’m a little bit wicked, and they are right. Especially when I am often annoyed with my children for “getting in the way” of my “work.” Of course, I should be able to finish this book, but not if it means everybody dying.

I keep putting the word “productive” in scare quotes because I don’t think there will be a lot of congratulations in that final judging hour for a lot of the work a lot of us are doing. Another paper in an esteemed journal isn’t as good as not screaming at your little child, though getting the paper in on time will vastly increase a dopamine hit on the brain than will doing more dishes. That men can more easily drown out the cries of their offspring than women does not mean that women should feel bad about their productivity. It seems, frankly, inhuman that anyone should feel bad about what they can’t get done right now (even though I totally feel bad). Anyway, I should note that it has taken the collective energy of nine—read nine—other people, and my church shouting at me to Get Off-Line and Go Finish to actually sit down and do what I said I would do. If you are alone with little kids underfoot, of course you can’t, and you shouldn’t even try. And you shouldn’t feel bad about it either. Your kids will thank you later, and you’ll be happy you all made it out alive.