My man’s place is in the home.

“You’ll never have to wash another pair of panties in your life,” he quipped. Scott, my husband of 12 years was settling into our patio glider, glass of chenin blanc in hand, and kick-starting one of our most loved marital discussions: what it will be like when he can fulfill his destiny and become a full-time househusband. 

“I don’t really wash them now,” I reminded him of my lacking domesticity. 

“Fair.”

This topic of conversation is a perennial favorite during our Friday night States of the Union when the two of us convene over a bottle or two of Loire Valley white to discuss the status of our relationship and offer a redress of grievances. Scott launches into a familiar line of questioning – how long I think it will be until this dream can be brought to fruition. Ten years? Fifteen? He’s not sure he’s got 15 years left in him. 

It’s not like Scott doesn’t like his job. He’s been with the same Atlanta-based construction company since he was freshly minted from high school, and they hired him when puka shell necklaces and frosted tips were still a thing guys were hella into. For that, he and I are forever grateful. They’ve granted him opportunities often unheard of for those who opted not to pursue college degrees, and they’ve paid him well. Odds are he’ll stay there for the entirety of his working life -- that is until I can pull in enough income to maintain our semi-charmed life solo and he can retire (very) early. 

I, on the other hand, doubt I’ll ever completely retire. In truth, I don’t actually believe retirement will be a viable option for those of us with 30 years or more left in our careers. It’s always seemed out of reach for our generation — a Boomer construct reserved for and expected by them. And, unless the Social Security Fairy swoops in to solve the insolvency, I just don’t see a generation of retired Millennials happening. Retirement is cancelled, if you ask me. 

But a house husband… that’s a vision I can see manifesting. And Scott is a perfect candidate for this calling. He’s always championed an equitable split of household duties — an unfortunately rare luxury in Southern marriages — and he wouldn’t be caught dead saying that he was “helping with chores” or “babysitting” his own children. Please don’t get either of us started on this. 

“I, on the other hand, doubt I’ll ever completely retire. In truth, I don’t actually believe retirement will be a viable option for those of us with 30 years or more left in our careers.”

In fact, Scott’s the 55% parent, a role typically applied to the women who take on just a shade more of the homekeeping and childcare responsibilities. It’s Scott’s number that’s first up on the emergency call list at our sons’ school. And, owing to his workplace proximity to our home and bonkers PTO time — did I mention he’s been there since he was 18? — he’s more often than not the first responder when explosive diarrhea rears its shitty head during the school day. 

He’s an enthusiastic, empathetic caretaker, doling out bear hugs and tickles and kisses for boo-boos freely. It’s no great secret that he’s the one-year-old’s favorite. I just about killed us both trying to get him earthside, but Scott is surely Hill’s preferred parent. He’s also the one who studied the YouTube video on how to perfectly fold fitted sheets, effectively ending my era of balled-up sheet monsters on the top shelf of our linen closet. He’s good at this stuff.

Staying home is Scott’s dream. And why shouldn’t he have it? After all, I plan on having mine. I’ve been carefully crafting my career roadmap since I stepped foot in my first modest Buckhead office and they handed me my first modest paycheck. (Thirty-two thousand dollars EVERY SINGLE YEAR?! I felt like Scrooge McDuck in a bathtub full of coins.) 

I love my career in brand marketing. I love the confluence of creativity and strategy and leadership, and I have every intention of one day seeing my appropriately-professional-yet-still-quirky headshot on some organization’s website with “Chief Brand Officer” underneath it. 

I love being a working mom. I love continuing my family’s tradition of women who bust their asses to be respected for what we do, and showing my sons that we really can have it all (though, admittedly, not at the same time). 

What I don’t love is cooking on weekday nights, skipping a presentation to pick up a prescription, or keeping my own panty supply washed. Thankfully, I’ll have my househusband for that… one day.