My husband has been rambling on about a man cave for years now. First it started in the garage and the potential for some serious masculinity to happen in there. I’m not sure exactly what he was envisioning. A tiled floor? Shelves of organized power tools? A recliner and flat screen tv? Eventually I filled the space with strollers and bikes and used daycare furniture and you better believe he grumbled about every shifted screwdriver.
He grumbled his way into our spare room and set his prospects on a new man cave there. This man cave would store his collectible comic books. He would have shelves of sports cards categorized by sport and athlete arranged by year or date of birth or whatever. He would have an extended office desk made of wood imported from India and on it he would have three flat screen computer monitors arranged to view current trends in the stock market.
After listening to more grumbling when I moved Kainoa’s old crib and the mouse cageand my computer into his future “man cave”, I had finally had enough.
A man cave? Why in the world does a man need a cave? It’s not like the children are swinging themselves from his legs, begging for food all day. It’s not like he has to listen to a three year old screaming “no” while running naked up and down the hallways. It’s not like he has a five and seven year old to get ready for school each morning. He doesn’t have to field countless questions about how babies are born…
Quite the opposite actually. My man comes home from work at 5pm and our kids are down for bed at 8pm. He has three hours of interaction before he gets to retire to his “lair” for the evening and that’s it. They don’t dare hound him and whine at him because DUH, that’s what moms are for.
Do men need a room filled with their precious tools and gadgets?
Is MY man cave?
Where is my safe harbor? Why do I find myself crammed between a toilet and a wall with my hand covering one ear and a phone jammed into the other? Probably on a pile of dry pee from the last time my son decided to “go by himself”. And by “son” I mean “husband”. Why do I find myself army crawling through the garage and into the warm embrace of a god-forsaken mini van for a recharge and some chocolate while my husband kicks back in a recliner with a cold beer?
Where the flip is my man cave??
When I came to Pat with my problem he responded quickly with his answer, “the kitchen is your man cave”.
You’ll excuse me.
The….kitchen? Is my man cave? THE KITCHEN!?!
The one room in the house where demands are at the height of their demandliest? Where I am expected to prepare, cook, clean, scrub, bake, and serve every member of this household?? I don’t know who decided that the woman got to be the domestic goddess in the kitchen and that the man got to rest his poor tired bones in a tricked out man cave, but I’m demanding a re-vote and I’m taking the man cave.
I am. TAKING…the man cave!