I like the way we get it done around the house.
From early on, we loosely agreed that whoever cooks, the other does dishes. You pay the bills, balance the checkbook and plan the menu for every night of the world (unless I swoop in with takeout). I'm the official toilet plunger, landscape manicurist, garbage handler, and Scutigera coleoptrata killer (unless you're situated near a shoe with some substantial sole when they slink by).
You keep your eye on the kids' clothes hampers, while I keep my ear to squeaking serpentine belts under the hoods. This loose list goes on.
But even these rules aren't Rules. On any given day, one might say, we both do both. On plenty of occasions, things turn the rules and roles round.
Some nights, I cook and do dishes; or you do. Neither of us holds tightly to our tasks, nor do we hold it against the other when they reverse. You've killed your share of S. coleoptrata, mowed with beaded brow in the 90-degree heat, and courageously cleared many a jammed john. We just roll with it.
Rolling with it - and settling for its less-than-perfect results - is a best-kept secret to the longevity of this parable we're living out. Never being above a job. Tackling a basket of clean laundry that needs folding, a dirty dish that needs rinsing, a renegade dust bunny or a burned-out light bulb. Throwing ourselves into what might be the other's task, chasing bitterness away with Bible.
We don't do it perfectly, but we aspire to. We have our days. But I must say, God has been kind to bless me with such a roll-with-it kind of woman.
And oh, by the way, I have to work late tonight. Can you set the garbage out on the curb?