When My Husband Said Cleaning Toilets Was “Women’s Work,” I Sold His Xbox and Made Him Regret It
When my husband said scrubbing toilets was “women’s work,” I didn’t scream, I didn’t cry—I made a plan. And that plan involved his precious Xbox, my cousin Stacey, and a lesson he would never forget. His face when it all went down? Worth every second.
But to be honest, I should’ve seen it coming.
You know how love can make you blind? That’s exactly what happened to me. I made excuse after excuse for Eric. For two whole years of marriage, I convinced myself he was just tired, or forgetful, or stressed.
And to be fair, Eric wasn’t a terrible husband. Not at first.
He could be really sweet—bringing me flowers for no reason, cracking jokes that made me laugh so hard I cried, and surprising me with takeout after a long day. In the beginning, I truly thought I’d hit the jackpot.
“You’re so lucky!” my friends would gush. “Eric’s a keeper.”
He seemed like one. He worked hard as a software engineer and never slacked off when it came to the “manly stuff” around the house—taking out the trash, doing the groceries, fixing the car. That was his zone, and he handled it without me ever asking.
But the inside of the house? That was apparently my territory.
I also worked full-time, running a small but busy marketing firm downtown. Still, I was the one cooking, cleaning, folding laundry, and scrubbing toilets—usually around midnight while he sat playing Call of Duty with a beer in hand.
“You work so hard,” I’d tell him. “You deserve to relax.”
He’d flash that adorable smile I fell in love with. “Thanks, babe. You’re the best wife ever.”
So I kept pushing through. I told myself this was just what love looked like. Me holding everything together while he gamed his stress away.
It wasn’t until I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test that things finally started to shift.
My hands shook as I stared down at it in the bathroom. We’d been trying for months. Now it was real. My heart pounded.
“Eric!” I called out, barely able to contain myself. “Can you come here for a sec?”
He paused his game and jogged in. “What’s going on? You sound weird.”
I held up the stick. “We’re having a baby.”
His eyes got wide—and then he just lit up.
“Are you serious?” he whispered. Then he scooped me up into the biggest hug. “We’re really doing this? We’re gonna be parents?”
“We’re really doing this,” I said, laughing through tears.
Eric seemed like he was made for fatherhood. He built blanket forts with my sister’s twins, taught them silly songs, and made them giggle for hours. I thought, This man is going to be the best dad ever.
And for a while, he really was.
He drove me to every check-up. He painted the nursery yellow since we didn’t want to know the baby’s gender. He came home with tiny shoes and onesies and would say things like, “Can you believe someone’s actual foot will fit in this?”
He brought me ginger tea when I had morning sickness, rubbed my back when I cried for no reason, and set up a star projector nightlight in the baby’s room.
For those nine months, it felt like we were a real team.
Then our daughter Emma was born.
It was a Wednesday morning. Twelve hours of labor. And when they placed her on my chest—this tiny, warm little bundle—I understood what people meant by “instant love.”
Eric cried. He kissed my forehead and stroked Emma’s hair gently.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “We made a whole person, Alice.”
For the next two weeks, Eric stepped up big time. He changed diapers, walked her up and down the hallway when she wouldn’t sleep, and made late-night bottles without complaining.
“You’re a natural,” I told him during a 3 a.m. feeding.
“I just want to be the best dad I can,” he said softly. “She deserves that.”
It felt like the beginning of something beautiful.
But then he went back to work. And slowly, everything changed.
At first, he still helped when he got home—feeding Emma, giving her baths. But the chores? They crept back into my corner like a shadow. The laundry, the dishes, the grocery runs—all me again.
“You’re home all day anyway,” he said once when I asked about the laundry. “I’m exhausted.”
Home all day? I wasn’t relaxing. I was taking care of a newborn, running on fumes, covered in spit-up, and barely surviving.
“I need to decompress,” he’d say, disappearing into his game room.
I kept telling myself it was just a rough patch. We’d adjust. It would get better.
Then I got sick.
It started with a sore throat and turned into a full-blown fever. I could barely move. Emma had been up crying all night, and I was shaking with chills, barely holding her bottle steady.
“Eric,” I called from the couch, my voice weak. “Can you help me? I think I have the flu.”
He looked up from his phone and frowned. “Help how?”
“Could you clean the bathroom? I was supposed to yesterday but I feel awful. And maybe take care of Emma for a while so I can rest?”
He stared at me like I asked him to clean with his tongue.
“Ugh, that’s gross. That’s your job. It’s women’s work. I’m not scrubbing toilets.”
I blinked. “What did you just say?”
He shrugged. “Come on, Alice. You know I don’t do that stuff. It’s nasty. You’re better at it anyway.”
That was it. Something inside me snapped.
I grew a human being in my body, and you can’t clean a toilet? Okay, let’s see how you like this.
As soon as he went into the bedroom, I made a call.
“Stacey? I need a huge favor.”
My cousin Stacey had been cleaning houses professionally for years. She owed me big—I let her crash in our guest room for three months during her divorce and helped her pay for her lawyer.
“Alice? You sound awful! What’s going on?”
“I need my house cleaned. Monday morning. I’ll pay full price—and then some.”
“Of course! But wait, are you okay?”
“Let’s just say I’m about to teach my husband a very expensive lesson.”
Monday at 9 a.m. sharp, Stacey showed up with her cleaning supplies.
“Where do I start?” she asked cheerfully.
“Bathroom,” I said. “Make it sparkle.”
While Stacey cleaned, I packed a small overnight bag for Emma and me. By noon, the house looked like a model home. I paid Stacey in cash—with a fat bonus—and gave her a big hug.
“You’re amazing,” I told her.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, I will be. Just wait.”
That night, Eric walked in around 6 p.m.
He stopped dead in the doorway, eyes wide. “Whoa! You finally cleaned. The place looks amazing!”
“Nope,” I said, holding Emma in my arms. “I hired someone. Since you think cleaning toilets is women’s work, I used your Xbox to pay for it.”
“You what?” His face went pale.
“I sold it online this morning. Got $800. That covered Stacey’s full rate—and then some.”
“You sold my Xbox? You can’t just do that!”
I smiled sweetly. “Actually, I can. You said the housework is my job, right? So I used my job money to get it done. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
He looked like someone had hit him with a frying pan. Just stared at the empty space where his gaming setup used to be.
I kissed Emma’s forehead and stood up, grabbing our bag. “We’re staying at my mom’s for a few days. Enjoy the clean bathroom—and hey, laundry’s still waiting. That’s all yours now.”
Then I walked out, leaving him frozen in the middle of our spotless living room.
His face was priceless.
Two days later, I came home.
The laundry was folded. Dishes were done. The house was still clean. And Eric?
He was waiting with a sheepish smile and a big apology.
“I get it now,” he said quietly. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll do better—starting now.”
And he did.
Sometimes, to wake someone up, you don’t need to scream. You just need to sell their favorite toy and hand them a toilet brush.
And that’s how I taught my husband that respect isn’t “women’s work.” It’s marriage work.