This month has been a lesson in what hard work *really* is. It is true that behind every successful barrister with kids there is another parent, a partner, an au pair or a granny to share the load – it just isn’t possible without *some* help, given in return for money if not out of love. And I often SAY to my single mum colleagues “How the hell do you do it?”. Well, I’ve had a taster of their world for a couple of weeks now, cos my other half has been out of action selfishly buggering up his back and then having his leg chopped off and stitched back on again (these two things are the only things that get him to sit still, apart from a surfeit of cider). He has a nice bionic knee now, but he isn’t quite back to being my right hand man just yet. And me? I’m run ragged, and that’s even though I’ve called in every favour I can think of from my parents and every other person who didn’t scarper quickly enough, to cover school runs and such like (the 9am directions hearing in Swindon that lasted till 6pm presented something of an unexpected challenge to my carefully laid plan for that particular day).

So yours truly (whose favourite thing is to joke about how even a role-reversed husband still seems to think there is a toilet cleaning fairy), has had a bit of a wake up call. Yes, I am and have always been the ONLY person in this darn house who EVER cleans the bog (notwithstanding the fact that the other 3 are the male and thus congenitally unable to do it neatly, even though they are the ones god blessed with directional equipment). And yes, I am and have always been the ONLY person who empties the wastepaper baskets all around the house, which are invariably full by Saturday morning with rotten banana peels glued onto the side of the bins with half sucked sweets. And yes, I am and have always been the only person who knows how to dust (6 y/o is a big “dusting fan” but this involves spraying a whole can of pledge in large dollops and very little polishing or dust removal). And yes, there are places under and behind certain items of furniture where only I ever dare venture (and on each such expedition one is guaranteed to find at 3 disembodied lego heads, a marble, 2 pieces of petrified popcorn, a five pence piece, a hairclip and a pizza crust. Where DO all the hair-clips come from? It’s not even like there are any girls in our house…).

Me on a Saturday…(Pic courtesy of Lucky Jimmy on flickr – thanks)

We agreed many years ago that this was the way we would run our house – I’d bring home the bacon, he’d be the house husband. It has worked pretty well, though my bras are always grey and I once discovered we hadn’t had a functioning mop for several months (he denies this, it’s true – but I have told him it’s staying in on the basis of artistic licence).

But it’s only been the last couple of weeks where I’ve had to combine all my usual loo cleaning, bin emptying, dusting domestic-goddess-on-a-saturday chores with daily packed lunch preparation, washing, dinner preparation, washing up, washing, bin emptying, washing, recycling, folding laundry, putting away laundry (no, we don’t do ironing. It’s banned), washing, hoovering, letting the chickens out, cleaning the cat litter, asking the children to get dressed four hundred times, supervising teeth cleaning, shoelace tying, hair brushing, breakfast eating, school run, last minute costume making, last minute homework doing, school run (minus a coat, or a shoe or a lunchbox), putting the chickens to bed, washing, dealing with sick children, ferrying children from school to competing clubs and activities at 30 minute intervals, shopping, doctors appointments, prescription collection. I think on one day last week I must have pulled in and out of our drive about 30 times between school runs and this activity and that and shopping trips and errands. So if you’ve seen me looking (even more) slightly rumpled and unbrushed than usual, this is why.

Yeah. It’s only now that I get why he can’t be arsed to clean the lav. He doesn’t clean the inside of the oven, but he does clean the cooker top. He doesn’t mop the floor but he does wipe the counters. He doesn’t separate the loads but he does do loads and loads and loads of washing. He doesn’t feed us cordon bleu and he orders too many pizzas, but he does get us fed. And you know what? He always brings me a cuppa in bed (very wise, I’m not nice first thing), makes me breakfast and sends me out the door with a vat of caffeine in my travel mug. Which is clearly a good trade off for a sparkling toilet pan. Juggling all this daily STUFF with work was frankly, a blinkin nightmare – even though I cut back on my normal workload knowing it was coming. It just would not be compatible with my current workload even if I had military-style systems in place. Even if I drop them at Breakfast Club five minutes before I’m supposed to I can only just get to court in the nick of time – and that’s if I’m local. It’s like flipping plate spinning and it has made me dizzy.

Anyway, I can highly recommend a bit of role swapping to give you perspective. He ain’t perfect, but nor am I and we both pull our weight in ways that it is easy for the other to lose sight of.

But we are lucky enough to be a couple. It makes me think that life must be pretty relentless for single parents, particularly those who have to work, and even more so those in self-employed or unpredictable jobs like mine – and even if you have hired help or childcare provision. I am in awe of you mums and dads who do that.

And non-resident parents – cut your ex some slack. It’s a lot harder doing it day in day out than it looks from the outside.

Before I sat down to write this blog post I broke out the mop (it was looking neglected). And so, as I type the kitchen and bathroom have had their annual mop, the bins are empty and the washing mountain is folded and clean. It will probably never reach the drawers but I don’t care – term is over and I’ve almost done my last hearing before the Christmas break when no cleaning is allowed. It’s the law. I am already liberated from hoovering until 2017 by the fact that I lost the diamond out of my engagement ring this week and there is therefore a precautionary (but in reality pointless) hoover ban at ours. Although I’m sad to have lost it, after 16 years I’ve realised that the diamond doesn’t matter, it’s the teamwork that does. After Xmas I will take my engagement ring and wedding ring and have them melted into a new ring. And I will take it off when I do the chores from now on.

PS This sweariness / uncouth rating of this post has been toned down. Him indoors says “what will you say in your interview for High Court Judge when they ask about your swearing?”. To which I say a big festive and slightly cynical “Ho ho ho!”. For imagining that my foul mouth is the single biggest impediment to my aspirations to conquer the world I love him a little bit more. He also says this post obsesses too much on the toilet, but then he’s not British and thus will never truly understand our love of all things toilet…