Off The Record
My Husband Refused To Buy A Washing Machine And Told Me To Wash By Hand — So His Mom Could Go On Vacation Instead
When our washing machine failed, I assumed my husband would understand that I was fatigued beyond description, drowning in baby laundry, and six months postpartum. Rather than offering assistance, he shrugged and remarked, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I never imagined doing laundry would take up so much of my time.
I gave birth to our first child six months ago. My life had since become a never-ending cycle of cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, feeding, and washing. A lot of washing. In a single day, babies go through more clothing than a whole football team.
I washed at least eight pounds of blankets, bibs, burp cloths, and small onesies on a good day. On a rough day? I stopped counting, let’s say.
I knew I was in trouble when the washing machine broke.
It sputtered, made a depressing grinding sound, and died just as I was taking out a sopping pile of garments. I hit the buttons. Nothing. I unplugged it and then replugged it. Nothing.
My heart fell.
I didn’t spend any time when Billy got home from work.
I said, “The washing machine is dead,” as soon as he entered the room. “We need a new one.”
Billy’s eyes seldom left his phone. “Huh?”
“The washing machine broke, I remarked. It must be replaced. Soon.”
He kicked off his shoes, nodded absently, and browsed his screen. “Yes. Not this month.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he said once more. “Maybe when I get paid next month. Three weeks.”
My stomach twisted. “I can’t live without a washing machine for three weeks, Billy. The infant’s clothing must be thoroughly cleaned each day.”
Billy let out a sigh as if I were making an unreasonable request. Setting his phone down, he extended his arms above his head. “You see, I already committed to covering my mother’s vacation expenses this month. She truly is deserving.”
I gazed at him. “Your mom’s vacation?”
“Yes. She has been looking after us. I felt that doing anything for her would be pleasant.”
Taking care of infants?
I took a deep breath. Every month, his mother visited. While the baby slept, she ate the dinner I made, watched TV, and napped on the couch. Babysitting wasn’t what that was. It was a visit.
Billy continued to speak as if he hadn’t just told me something shocking. “I decided to pay for her trip as she mentioned that she needed a break. Only a few days will pass.”
I folded my arms. “Your mom doesn’t watch your kids,” Billy said. She visits, eats, takes a nap, and then leaves for home.
He scowled. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? How recently did she change her diaper?”
Billy’s mouth opened, then closed. “That’s not the point.”
I gave a harsh chuckle. “Oh, I think it is.”
He rubbed his face and moaned. “Look, why don’t you simply do the hand washing for the time being? That’s what people did for centuries. It didn’t kill anyone.”
I felt my blood boil as I looked at him. Hand-wash everything. As if I wasn’t already exhausted, aching, drowning in work, and barely getting three hours of sleep every night.
With my hands balled into fists, I inhaled deeply and slowly. I wanted to scream, to yell, to tell him that this was unfair. However, I was acquainted with Billy. He wouldn’t change his opinion by arguing.
I let out a breath and glanced at the mound of filthy garments at the door. Alright. If he requested that I wash everything by hand, I would do just that.
It wasn’t a bad first load.
I put the baby’s clothes in the bathtub, filled it with soapy water, and began to scrub. I assured myself that the pain in my arms was only momentary. Only a few weeks.
My back was yelling by the third load. I had raw fingertips. Billy’s work clothes, towels, and bed linens were still waiting for me.
It was the same every day. Get out of bed, nurse the infant, clean, cook, do the laundry by hand, hang it up, and wring it out. By the time I finished, I was tired, my shoulders were stiff, and my hands were swollen.
Billy was unaware.
He arrived home, took off his shoes, lay on the couch, and ate the food I had prepared. He never once inquired if I needed assistance, even though I was hardly able to hold a spoon. I never gave my hands, which were red and cracked from hours of cleaning, a glance.
I fell onto the couch next him one evening after I had finished washing yet another pile of clothing. I stroked my sore fingers and winced.
Billy gave me a look. “What’s wrong with you?”
I gazed at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He gave a shrug. “You look tired.”
I laughed resentfully. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He didn’t flinch at all. simply returned to the television. Something suddenly snapped inside of me at that very instant.
Billy wouldn’t comprehend unless he experienced the inconvenience firsthand. It’s okay if he wants me to live like a housewife from the 19th century. He might lead a caveman’s life.
I therefore prepared my retaliation.
As usual, I packed his lunch for the following morning. However, I packed his lunchbox with of stones rather than the substantial, filling meal he had anticipated. I put a folded note directly on top.
After giving him a cheek kiss, I sent him off to work.
I waited after that.
Billy, flushed and enraged, burst through the front door at precisely 12:30 PM.
He slammed his lunchbox down the counter and yelled, “What the hell have you done?!”
I turned away from the sink and used a towel to wipe my hands. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
When he opened the lid, the mound of rocks was visible. Reaching for the note, he read it aloud.
In the past, men would buy food for their families on their own. Hunt your food, light a fire with stones, and cook it.
Anger twisted his face. Shirley, are you completely insane? This had to be opened in front of my colleagues.
I folded my arms. “Oh, so public humiliation is bad when it happens to you?”
Billy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have a retort for once, even though he seemed to want to yell.
I cocked my head and crossed my arms. “All right, Billy. Please explain the differences.”
He clenched his jaw. “Shirley, this is—this is just childish.”
I gave a harsh chuckle. “Oh, I see. So, while your pain is genuine, mine is just me acting like a child?”
His hands sprang into the air. “You could have just talked to me!”
I took a step forward, my chest blazing. “Speak with you? Yes, Billy, I did. I told you that I couldn’t survive without a washing machine for three weeks. I told you that I was tired. You shrugged and instructed me to complete the task by hand. As if I were a woman from the nineteenth century!”
I could see the glimmer of shame sneaking in, yet his nostrils flared. He was aware of my correctness.
I gestured toward his lunchbox. “You assumed I would simply accept it? That you would sit on that couch every night with no worries at all, while I would wash and clean and break my back?”
Billy rubbed the back of his neck and turned his head away.
I gave a headshake. “Billy, I’m not a servant. And I’m positive it’s not your mom.”
Quiet. At last he mumbled, “I get it.”
I said, “Do you?”
His shoulders slumped as he moaned. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
I listened to him for a while, allowing his words to sink in. I then returned my attention to the sink. “Good,” I said as I washed my hands. “Because, Billy, I meant it. You’d better learn how to make a fire with those pebbles if you ever prioritize your mother’s vacation over my basic necessities again.”
Billy spent the remainder of the evening pouting.
His dinner was hardly touched. He didn’t switch on the television. With his arms folded, he sat on the couch and gazed at the wall as if it had personally deceived him. He occasionally let out a loud sigh, as if I was expected to feel sorry for him.
I didn’t.
It was him who felt uneasy for once. It was he who had to bear the consequences of his own decisions. I had no problem letting him stew in it.
The following morning, an odd incident occurred.
Billy’s alarm sounded sooner than normal. He actually got up rather than repeatedly pressing the snooze button. He hurriedly changed and walked out silently.
I didn’t inquire about his destination. I simply waited.
I heard it before I saw it, the distinct sound of a big box being pulled through the entryway, when he got home that night.
It was there when I turned around. a recently purchased washing machine.
Billy remained silent. He simply checked the settings and plugged in the hoses to set it up. No grievances. No justifications. Just quiet resolve.
Finally, when he was done, he looked up. His speech was low and his countenance was bashful.
“I get it now.”
After observing him for a while, I nodded. “Good.”
The back of his neck was rubbed. “I, uh… should’ve listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I replied with my arms crossed. “You should have.”
Without protest or explanation, he swallowed, nodded once more, then picked up his phone and left. Acceptance only. And truthfully? That was sufficient.
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