More feminist fun times in the pages of the Guardian, where Nicola Heath is bemoaning her womanly lot:

It feels very personal, the fight you have with your partner about who does the laundry or cleans the bathroom. But the second-wave feminists were right. The personal is political. 

“The personal is political,” says she. Well, so I hear. But it’s also worth considering just how often the political, or allegedly political, is a function of personality and a self-flattering rationalisation for personal shortcomings and sub-optimal choices. Not least among the kinds of people who loudly announce that the personal is political. In fact, hold that thought.

The unequal division of labour at home is a systemic issue that needs structural social change to solve it. 

In this instance, the claim of inequality and the case for “structural social change” are not entirely compelling:  

Like many heterosexual couples, it was the arrival of children that set my husband and me on divergent paths at home. I’ve been an avowed (and untidy) feminist since I was old enough to say the word. We were together for 10 years before the birth of our daughter – he knew his co-parent had zero aspirations to be a homemaker… Becoming a parent is… a huge transition. Your identity is reforged in the crucible of sleep deprivation and newfound responsibility. The pre-kid lifestyle of Friday night drinks, free time and sleeping in becomes a distant memory. 

Yes, in a shocking and unguessable turn of events, becoming a parent is usually a life-changing experience, a major development that entails compromise and sacrifice. A shifting of priorities. If only all of the other parents on the planet throughout human history had an inkling, some clue. Our Guardian writer is of course determined to frame the subsequent division of labour in the Heath household as a result of dark forces – including “social conditioning,” “prescribed gender roles” and the oft-invoked “gender pay gap.” An allegedly oppressive phenomenon that doesn’t actually exist. And then, inevitably, a whiff of self-pity:

When you have someone to take care of menial stuff such as running your life, there’s little incentive to change the status quo. It’s nice having someone wash your clothes and cook your food. When you don’t have to expend mental energy keeping track of grocery lists and family birthdays, you have the cognitive bandwidth to think about other things.

She’s expending mental energy on grocery lists. Someone bring medals, big ones.

You should chew your food until it is small enough to swallow easily,

The Guardian, paper of the enlightened, tells its readers how to chew food.

Also, open thread.

Update:

In the comments, via Darleen, behold the bedlamite dance.

“Labour Party. Socialist. Teacher.”

Put another way, “State education is generally sub-optimal and often shockingly bad. Let’s make sure that’s all there is available.”

We’ve been here before, of course. As when we heard the claim, conveniently unchallenged, that doing one’s best for one’s own children – in contravention of “social justice” – is merely a “cultural construction,” and therefore, presumably, ripe for deconstruction. By our betters.

And we’ve been here more than once.

Minor malfunction detected. || An appetising dessert. || Just the usual family drama. || An alarming example of upside-down peas. (h/t, Damian) || How to sound like Erik Satie, or alternatively, like Bach. || The sounds of American doomsday cults. (h/t, Things) || It undulates. || Theodore Dalrymple on modern dishonesties. || The car of tomorrow. || Firecrackers of yore. (h/t, Coudal) || South African scenes. || Horse sense. (h/t, Darleen) || High anxiety. || I think something is rattling. || Attention, retailers: How to sell the Sony Betamax. || Stromboli goes boom. || There and back again. || God one, boat nil. (h/t, Rita) || Eleven elements. || And finally, via Elephants Gerald, a balance of terror.

I think it may be time for an open thread, in which to share links and bicker.

What?

Oh, sorry. Forgot.

Breasts.

A discussion ensues.