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,
