I spent a week on maternal strike – the house was filthy and the husband was outraged… it changed our lives, but I won’t do it again

WHEN people ask what I do for a living, I tell them I’m a writer.

But in reality, my work is EVERYTHING. Cookingcleaning, washing, ironing, school administration – and much more.

6

I collect the dirty dishes from my children’s rooms, make the beds and hang the clothes.

Yes, they will make the beds if told to, but now I have decided that enough is enough. I’m 47 years old and balancing my work and running a household is hard work.

So when I heard about Channel 5’s new show Mums On Strike it inspired me to give it a try. Here’s what happened. . .

DAY ONE

I WAKE the children up at 9am (it’s summer holidays) and announce: “I’m on strike”.

“What?” they sing, rubbing their eyes. “Strike,” I reply.

Adriana, ten years old, makes a face. Alex, 15, shrugs.

Instead of bringing them breakfast, I make them some coffee and sit with my feet up.

“Aren’t I going to have breakfast?” asks Adriana around 10am. “You can help yourself,” I say with a smile.

Their musician father, Cornel, 44, is working. Adriana takes a cereal and leaves looking confused.

I feel a little guilty, but this is the first day. I need to stay strong.

After they both eat – Alex eats a bowl of granola – I don’t clean up their food. bowls.

Alex’s is on the kitchen table and Adriana’s is on the bedroom floor.

I hear them brushing their teeth, but instead of running afterward to clean up the toothpaste spit, I leave them there. This is hard. I hate it in the sink.

Cornel returns at lunchtime and finds the children watching TV.

“Where’s lunch?” Adriana asks.

6

6

Cornel finds me browsing on my phone. “I’m on strike, remember?” I say. He rolls up his sleeves and prepares lunch for them.

The sun comes out, so I sit outside with a cold drink.

By 4pm, I’m usually planning dinner. Not today.

When they arrive at 5pm to an empty dinner table, the children groan.

“So the strike doesn’t include dinner?” Alex asks.

I confirm and decide to go for a walk while Cornel sorts the food. Something from the freezer, no doubt. When I go in, I make a quick salad.

At bedtime, instead of loading the dishwasher, I take a long, hot shower and then do a self-care routine that involves a face mask and serums, then go to bed to read my book.

I don’t smell food. My hands don’t dry from washing. That’s it Cool.

DAY TWO

HUSBAND is at work all day, so it’s just me and the kids.

They ask about breakfast and I remember I’m on strike.

“What, even today?” Adriana asks.

“Yes, even today,” I reply.

“Surely that’s illegal,” she mutters. But she learned to open the cupboard and get her own cereal.

It’s a beautiful day and normally I would take them somewhere like the beach. I’m upset because I would love to go, but a strike is a strike.

Alex goes out to meet friends. Adriana enters the garden with me and lies next for me on a sun lounger.

“Can I have a drink?” she asks.

“Yes, in the fridge,” I reply.

She gets one – and brings me a glass of lemonade too. Maybe this is working? Again, I don’t make dinner. Cornel sends me a message to see if I’m still on strike.

And when I say yes, he comes home with two huge bags of McDonald’s for the kids.

“Yes!” they cry.

They gather around him like he’s the hero and scowl at me. I feel bad. I’m definitely the enemy tonight.

How can a attacker compare to a McDonald’s?

DAY THREE

I received a spa voucher for my birthday so I decide to use it since Cornel is home.

I spend the morning at a local hotel getting a facial and neck massage. So I sit by the pool.

I check my phone for messages, but there are none. Maybe they can fend for themselves after all?

Still, I can’t relax. My mind is working overtime. I know that toothpaste sink is going to look horrible now.

I know there are dishes rotting in the children’s rooms.

As for clothes, I usually do at least one wash a day. I haven’t done anything for three days and I know no one will notice.

Not until they run out of pants, anyway.

6

6

When I get home, the kids are out. One note says, “Going out to eat.”

The kitchen sink is full of dirty cutlery that no one thought to put in the dishwasher.

The oldest, however, made the bed and hung up the clothes. Adriana’s duvet is rolled up in what appears to be an attempt to make the bed.

But the fridge is empty (I didn’t go shopping), so I order a Domino’s pizza just for myself – delicious, since I never do that – and eat it alone on the couch. Blessing!

When the children enter, they see the Dominoes box and are confused.

“Yes. I had a pizza just for me!”

Adriana shakes her head and looks worried.

DAY FOUR

By now, everyone already knows the essence of my attack. They get up, prepare their own breakfast and, in shock, make their bed.

Adriana brings some dishes from the room and puts them in the sink. Then Cornel asks: “Shall we do the laundry?”

He shows me the laundry basket overflowing on the bathroom floor.

“We ran out of socks,” he says.

“You’d better wash up then,” I reply.

He starts carrying different clothes downstairs in his arms – colored, white, pants, towels.

I have to tell him to do the whites separately and the delicates on a different cycle. He achieves this and puts on a white wash. Later I hear whispers upstairs.

Then the three of them come down and say: “Let’s take you to lunch.”

We go to a local cafe where we all eat and talk. The theme of my strike is the elephant in the room, but no one recognizes it.

I definitely feel less tired from work. However, my anxiety over that miserable stained sink and the fact that only one load of laundry has been done in days makes me a little queasy.

I’m close to giving up, but there are only three days left. I have to be strong.

DAY FIVE

THE kids are out with their friends and Cornel is at work. I notice the dishwasher is running, the kitchen sink is clean, and I hear the washing machine humming.

There’s a pile of clean, dry laundry on the couch (presumably for me to sort, but I won’t) and the beds are made.

This is a huge improvement in daily life and I really feel very proud of them. But the bane of my life, the bathroom, makes my anxiety skyrocket.

The sink looks like something out of a dosshouse.

The shower has clumps of hair near the plug and the lids run out of shampoo.

I work every day and I give up part of the afternoon to prepare food. Why can’t he do that too?

The mirror is splattered with white toothpaste stains and the toilet hasn’t been cleaned in days. I take a deep breath, go out and close the door behind me.

In the early evening, the two children arrive home and Cornel enters, brandishing a Chinese takeout.

“You’re undermining my strike with takeout,” I say angrily.

He shrugs: “It’s quicker and easier, plus it’s at work.”

But I work every day And I give up part of the afternoon to prepare food.

Why can’t he do that too?

This makes me angry, so I go upstairs to shower while they get ready to eat me.

At night I go to a friend’s house — who is also a mother — and tell her about my strike.

She explains that I made things worse for myself. The delay in cleaning and laundry will be worse after this, she reckons.

But if I give in now, what does that mean? So I stick to my guns.

DAY SIX

At this point everyone gets up, makes their beds and prepares breakfast.

I feel a little guilty eating toast and coffee that I made just for myself. But I’m so close to completing my attack.

It’s the weekend, so Cornel suggests a day at the beach. Normally I would be the one to go out and buy beach-appropriate snacks and drinks. I also bring blankets, bathing suits and sunscreen.

Not this time.

“What I need to do?” Cornel asks. I cheat a little and tell him, but I don’t do anything.

He goes to the store to buy snacks and then packs his bags.

We spent the day at nearby Bournemouth beach.

Is it their fault or mine that we have this whole scenario where I’m the one doing everything?

For the first time it’s not me serving food and snacks while everyone else stands around. Instead, I lie down and cover my face with my straw hat while they decide who eats what.

Then I go swimming alone in the sea. When I look at the shore, a pang of guilt hits me. I see my family – the three people I love most in the world – struggling to find sunscreen and figuring out who owns the towel. And I feel an explosion of love for them.

Is it their fault or mine that we have this whole scenario where I’m the one doing everything?

We return home and I’m shocked to find that Cornel has done a full shop and prepared salad, potatoes and salmon for all of us.

The kids actually clean the dishes and take them to the dishwasher. I go to bed feeling content.

SEVENTH DAY

It’s the last day of my strike. Improvements: They are tidying up the rooms, putting down the dishes, loading the dishwasher and preparing their own breakfast.

Cornel is meal planning and cooking. The only thing she’s driving me crazy about is the bathroom and the pile of dirty laundry.

Cornel seems to think that one wash is enough when I have to do at least one a day to stay up to date.

I decide to make a statement. I drop the laundry basket on the floor. There are so many things that you can’t open the bathroom door.

He understands the tip and applies several washes – and in colors, delicate and white, as I expected.

But the pit of shame remains. Now it looks yellow.

This is my hardest test yet. The rest is getting better, but this bathroom is driving me crazy.

I finally erupt and tell my family.

I explain that they did very well, but the sink needs to be replaced.

Cornel cleans the sink until it shines, then the shower and also the bathroom.

Adriana actually offers to clean the floor – which she enjoys!

Finally, on the seventh day of my strike, my bathroom shined again.