Esther McCarthy: Of all the household chores, changing the bedclothes is the absolute worst

Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn

Do you know what used to really bug me about American sitcoms and films? 

Besides the canned laughter tracks, obviously.

I could never figure out why, whenever the husband and wife had a fight, no matter how enormous the house was, someone always had to sleep on the couch.

Like they could be living in South Fork scale, or rattling around a gaff bigger than Kevin McCallister’s, it’s still the sofa for you, bucko. 

‘Ooh, an unexpected visitor has shown up, it’s my sexy, annoying boss caught in a snowstorm.’ 

Or, ‘Oh no! Our houseguest drank too much at our quirky Thanksgiving party, and passed out after revealing an important plot point, let’s take their keys, tuck them into the sofa, and tiptoe upstairs where we have 10 spare rooms’.

For chrissake, I used to shout at the screen. Why is everyone sleeping in the sitting room like it’s Angela’s Ashes?

But as I stand here, cursing at a duvet cover that’s clearly lying about its size, I finally understand. They probably just didn’t want to change a full bed set for one night’s kip. I get it now.

Because of all the household chores, changing the bedclothes is the absolute worst. The king of chores, if you will, except ours is a super king, which is basically a continent with a duvet on top. 

When the third kid came along, it felt like the bed would need to accommodate five forever — ah, how those years have flown. Now it’s just the two of us again, battling to find sheets that fit.

I’ve bought the deep ones from Dunnes. I’ve ordered fancy ones online. None of them align properly.

Either I’m breaking my fingernails trying to yank that last corner into place, or it’s too big and I’m sleeping on a wrinkly hillside all night.

And yes, I’m old enough now that the wrinkles under my arse are matched by the ones on it.

And don’t start me on pillowcases. I put everything in the wash together — and still, they emerge mismatched. Where do they go?

I’ve tried the trick of folding the whole set into one pillowcase so they stay together, but it never works. There’s always a rogue case that appears from nowhere. Are they mating in there?

By the time I’ve wrestled the duvet into submission, I want to set fire to the bed, and go and sleep on the sofa myself. I hate it. 

My number one dreaded household chore. 

Here are the runners-up, in no particular order:

• Changing the cat litter. Ugh. Picking up dog plops isn’t exactly my dream job either, but at least it’s quick and outdoors. Cat litter, though, allergic to that job. That sharp pungent stench of cat pee — it could be used in chemical warfare. The indignity of the cat haughtily overseeing me scrubbing it out with bleach, as he languidly licks his own butt hole. And he’s looking down on me? The snooty bastard. Don’t act like your shite don’t stink, Leo, because it does. Worse than that tuna sandwich I forgot about over the midterm when I was pulling out the lunchboxes at lastminute.com. You’re not better than me.
• Doing the laundry: The whole process, basket, stairs, machine, cycle, detergent, rash paranoia, it’s endless, and boooring. Wash, rinse, repeat, literally. And then, one fine day, you catch yourself leaping up mid-email to exclaim, “Jaypurs, there’s great drying out there today.” Congratulations: you’ve turned into your mother.
• Hoovering the stairs: The faffing with the lead. The unplugging and replugging upstairs. It’s like wrestling an angry snake called Henry.

But there are some jobs I don’t mind:

• Cleaning the bathroom: I know. But you can see the progress — proper before-and-after satisfaction. I even like pulling the hair out of the shower plug. Seriously. Being the only woman in the house, I at least know it’s all mine — which is a comfort until I remember perimenopause and start worrying about bald patches. Thanks, hormones. I’ll be like Telly Savalas with a microfibre cloth if this keeps up.
• The fridge clear-out: Cleaning the fridge is like an archaeological dig — you start off hopeful and end up uncovering relics from a forgotten civilisation. “Oh look, a yoghurt from before they all had to have protein percentages plastered all over them. How quaint.” There’s always a mysterious sticky patch that defies science, and at least one jar of mint sauce from that one time we had lamb. The fridge light feels like an interrogation lamp exposing my culinary failures. “Explain this furry half lemon wrapped in tinfoil, you monster.” But the high you get when it’s done is worth it all.

To be fair, my husband is probably reading this in horror, hoping I don’t get struck by lightning. But I never said how often I do any of these jobs, so technically, I’m not lying.

And if he dobs me in, I still won’t make him sleep on the couch — I’ll just hand him a pillowcase full of mismatched bedding and tell him to change the bedclothes instead.