When our vacuum broke, I told my husband Mason we needed a new one. He was lounging on the couch, barely looked up, and said, “Just use a broom. You’re home all day anyway. ”I had just given birth to our daughter Lila—nine weeks old, adorable, and colicky. I was on unpaid maternity leave, running on no sleep, juggling diapers, dishes, and two shedding cats. A broom? Really? He added, “My mom had five kids and no vacuum. Women were tougher back then.” Oh, and he couldn’t buy one because he was saving for a guys’ yacht trip. So the next day, I packed up a screaming Lila, threw the broken broom in the car, and drove to Mason’s office. I walked into his meeting—baby in one arm, busted broom in the other—and calmly laid the snapped broom on the conference table. “Hey babe,” I said sweetly. “Tried the broom thing. Didn’t work. Should I sweep by hand, or are you getting the vacuum?” The room went silent. Mason turned white. We stepped outside, where he hissed, “You embarrassed me! ”I replied, “I was just being resourceful. Like your mom. ”Later that night, he came home quiet. The next day, the yacht trip was mysteriously canceled. He vacuumed every rug, changed diapers, took the 3 a.m. shift, and left me a sticky note saying, “Sleep. I’ve got her. ”The broom? Still broken. Still in the hallway. Just in case he forgets
