Wall Repair IV

There's no tired like smug-happy-tired. It only FELT like the project that would never end. In reality, plugging away at tuck pointing the wall had the expected result - I finished my project last Tuesday evening after work.

A week ago Saturday, we had some brutally hot temps. I got up early, and was working by 6:30. (AM, that is!) Good thing, because the temps were already in the 90s when I knocked off around 10:30. Sunday it rained, putting a damper (literally) on my plans to finish up that morning, but there was a hidden blessing in the weather.

Monday and Tuesday were downright temperate, which gave me all the motivation I needed to get outside and finish up those last sections of wall in the evenings, even though I was tired after work. I was surprised to find myself a bit wistful when I got to the end. The project was hot, dusty, involved lots of hauling heavy objects around, and required me to get up early on the weekends. What's to miss?

As I was finishing up, I was pondering the nature of the things I was taught were 'women's work' vs. 'men's work'; i.e. 'The Way Things Are Supposed To Be Done'.

Outside of raising children, the women's tasks were transitory; needing to be done again and again.
Clean the house, it gets dirty, repeat.
Cook the meal, it gets eaten, repeat.
Wash, dry and fold the clothes, repeat.

The men's tasks more often involved lasting results.
Paint the house, and it was good for 5-10 years.
Repair the wall, at least 20 years, if done right.
Remodel the kitchen - that's usually good for 20-30 years.
(OK, raise the crops, feed the livestock, mow the lawn, and shovel the snow are in the 'do and repeat' category, so this isn't a perfect analogy.)

I wonder why this is.
Why do the men get assigned the tasks that they can point to years later, and say, 'I did this'?

My gut tells me the difference ties back to the children. Once I gave birth to the growing, changing miracles I call my children, my mark in the world had been set. Those precious bits of eating, sleeping, pooping life were my gift to the world. I could only hope the world would share in my wonder at the miracle of their presence.

Men don't get to have such an outlet. Their place in creating children is at the very beginning, and even though the good ones would happily share in the burden of pregnancy and childbirth, that choice is not an option for them. The kind of man I like picks up a decent share of the work as soon as the baby arrives, but it still leaves me to wonder how much of the lasting nature of men's work ties back to a basic need to leave a mark in this world; an 'I was here' sticker.

Maybe that's part of my wistfulness. My children are grown - for better or for worse, my part of those 'projects' is mostly done. My role is no longer to raise and to shape, but rather, when asked (or not...), to offer advice, and allow them to take or leave it as they see fit, without further comment on my part. (a challenging task, if I do say so myself.)

The wall was my way of saying 'I am still here!'; I can still contribute something of lasting value to the world. The work was not grand. It will be seen by few, appreciated by fewer. But my work means I will never need to worry about my fence falling into the neighbor's yard. (By the time the tuck pointing needs to be done again, it will not be mine to worry about.)

I know it's there, and I know the work is good.
I am still here.