A Man Can’t Do That

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Recently, I was at a work conference listening to a speaker give a lecture. These speakers always try to be entertaining to make the two hours pass quickly. In an effort to engage the audience, the lecturer started asking audience members questions about their offices (I’m a dentist). He went over to a gentleman in the fifth row and immediately assumed the man was the dentist.

“And in your office, when your girls answer the phone to talk to your patients, how do they greet them? Wait, you’re the dentist, right?”

Seated next to him was a young woman (my age), professionally dressed with a NAMETAG that very clearly said DOCTOR so-and-so. His name tag, however, said, “Mike, Office Manager.”

Turns out, the man actually was married to the dentist (the woman next to him). It was a slightly embarrassing interaction for the three of them, and I could tell the female dentist was humiliated.

Maybe it was my lack of sleep (hashtag newborn life). Maybe it’s because I didn’t get to finish my coffee before it got cold. Maybe it’s because, at 32 years old, I still get asked by patients all the time where the dentist is and how old I am.

But, whatever the reason, it made my blood boil. I was angry. I’m still angry.

man

How is it 2020 and women are STILL being assumed to be accessories instead of the bosses we are?

That interaction got me thinking. This is what we, as women, do every single day without missing a beat. We pump while sitting on a toilet in a public restroom for 20 minutes, rearrange our bras, tuck our shirts back in, compose ourselves, walk out and get back to work without missing a beat.

We nurse and rock our baby while we’re on the phone with our bank, managing our mortgage payments, following up on bank charges, and double-checking our account balances.

We literally squeeze a baby out of a hole the size of a straw and then go home two days later to wash dishes, do a load of laundry, quickly pop a few ibuprofen, and then make dinner.

We get our bodies cut open, have a human being pulled out of us, and get up and walk around the next day.

We get up three times during the night to feed our baby, then jump out of bed, shower as quickly as possible, chug our coffee, drive to work to work all day, then speed home to take care of our family.

We take care of our little humans all day, make meals, clean the house, give up our sense of self temporarily and then be a partner that night after the kiddos go to bed, be a listener, supporter, etc, etc, etc.

We get up before the sun does, go for a three-mile run, come home, make scrambled eggs, pack lunches, and start the day headfirst with a smile on our face.

We are the keepers of the house and the family: keeping track of appointments and reservations and schedules and allergies and grocery lists and Christmas lists and how much toilet paper is left.

We do all of this with often very little recognition or awareness from our male counterparts, kissing boo-boos and stripping beds and meeting with clients and filling out spreadsheets. For every one hour our male colleagues spend working, we are doing at least time-and-a-half. It’s how motherhood has been since the very beginning. A man can’t do that. And I’m not necessarily asking for a huge change with that (but, hey, that sure would be nice).

I’m just asking for the man standing at the front of the room to read the dang name tags.