Julie Jay: I yearn for the days when it was illegal for women to work

"Only time will tell from whence Ted’s disapproval truly stems but either way, his thumbs down when I leave for work versus his outright encouragement of Darling Husband going off to do comedy bits smacks of sexism."

Feminism is one of the ideologies I hold most dear. I say that, but every now and again - usually when I get a ‘not sure if you got my last email’ note from my accountant while simultaneously trying to peel Ted from the playground gate - I yearn for the days when it was illegal for women to work.

Sometimes I love work, and other times it’s - meh. Still, I can’t get by on my model good looks alone, so it is necessary to say ‘yes’ to capitalism again and again in a bid to earn a crust.

Working from home with a toddler is always an adventure when tiny fingers can appear at any given moment, dangling liquids perilously close to MacBooks mid-Zoom meeting. When Ted was slightly smaller in stature, I could position my laptop on kitchen worktops away from prying hands, but now that everything is within reach of this exceptionally tall two-year-old, most of my work starts after he has gone to bed.

Touring my Britney show has been a joy, but when Ted sees Mammy getting into her costume, the objections are swift. The fact that I leave the house dressed in red latex, work at night and usually get paid in cash means he probably thinks I have a very different type of career, but regardless, Ted has made his feelings known that my place is most certainly within the home. He is either not a fan of women in the workplace in general or not a fan of me specifically seeking gainful employment. Only time will tell from whence Ted’s disapproval truly stems but either way, his thumbs down when I leave for work versus his outright encouragement of Darling Husband going off to do comedy bits smacks of sexism.

This week DH calls me from a set in Dublin (as much as we adore him, he is starting to make Don Draper look like a stay-at-home dad). He had a day of free time ahead and, infuriatingly, had somehow found ten minutes for mindfulness meditation - the cheek.

"I was just thinking about Ted visiting us in the retirement home," he muses.

"You’re constantly fantasising about retirement homes," I respond, fishing my toothbrush out of the loo where Ted had placed it for safekeeping because burglars never check the loo.

"I can’t wait to be retired," says DH, his words heavy with yearning. Then without warning, he signs off, saying: "Oh, I’ll let you go, The Chase is starting."

The day will surely come when DH will realise he has already been living the life of a retiree for years now, but why burst his bubble?

The man is absolute goals when it comes to work-life balance and reminds me constantly that money isn’t everything, though sadly, our mortgage broker disagrees.

Yes, money isn’t everything, but it does seem important when you have to spend money to make money. Childcare is the perennial obstacle to women being allowed to flourish in the world of work. Go out and do you, society tells us. You’ve got this, girl boss, the media encourages. Of course, childcare falls to both parents, not just mammies, but try telling that to the adorable two-year-old clinging to your jeans with one hand and happily waving daddy off with the other.

While mammies have certainly been presented with more professional opportunities than previous generations, I wonder how much has improved in terms of facilitating our quest to do it all.

Back in the '80s childcare was much more haphazard. Generally, any neighbour would do, whether she was off the road for dangerous driving or had a court case for selling illegal fireworks pending, it didn’t matter because the only thing required to mind kids back then was a working television. Ray D’Arcy effectively babysat the nation for the years in between the Falklands War and Italia 90, so it was no wonder that when I once fleetingly met Ireland's Daddy, I wanted only to sit on his knee and for him to pat me on the head and tell me that was he was proud of me.

The work went out the window this week, and honestly I’m fine with that. The lack of output wasn’t the result of laziness, being work-shy, or choosing to do colouring with Ted when I should have been organising invoices. Instead, I just surrendered to the fact that there are so many hours in a day and instead assumed the life of Betty Draper, cleaning and cooking and cleaning and cooking. And you know what? As frustrating as it is not to meet deadlines, I love being on top of the house for once. Like, yes, shifting your husband is nice, but have you ever unclogged a shower drain? It’s pretty on par.

So to surmise: feminism is the biggest trick they ever pulled. Before that, women just had to keep the house tidy and smoke themselves thin, now we’re expected to do admin and emails and all kinds of laborious stuff. And of course, my tongue is firmly in my cheek, but say what you want about feminism - it has ruined a good duvet day.