Wages for housework: If your job is working in the home, should you be paid a salary?
TikTok
post. Filming from the driver's seat of her car, she ticks off the jobs most mothers do without pay: 'Chauffeur, chef, nanny, project manager for the house...'
The replies roll in – some appreciative, most dismissive. 'Bills paid, food on the table, card in my wallet and time with my kids. I'm paid better than any full-time job,' writes Robi Cheaux. 'She's compensated with free meals,
housing
, clothes,
car
, trips,' says Michael Candeta.
Others object to the transactional logic of a wage. 'If you are
married
and have to 'pay your wife', you aren't actually married,' Sean Brady argues. 'Feminism is when my husband is my employer,' writes Roseann Adu.
The conversation turns to performance reviews, with one person writing: 'If she wants a night off from making dinner, submit a PTO request one week in advance.' What's surprising is not that the internet objects to a wage for housework, but that a decades-old debate still sparks outrage.
READ MORE
In the 1970s, the activist Silvia Federici published a manifesto as part of the Wages for Housework campaign. Demanding a wage made the work, which was almost exclusively done by women, visible in a new way. It also challenged the idea that certain tasks and burdens – childcare, homemaking, the mental load – were somehow 'natural' to women.
Federici called her manifesto Wages Against Housework, switching out 'for' with 'against'. She was suggesting that the money itself isn't really what's at stake. She believed that demanding a wage brings it into a market where it can be seen as work and, more urgently, refused.
If capitalism was an iceberg, the economist team JK Gibson Graham have argued, then waged labour is just the tip. Under the surface are countless acts that go unrecognised and unpaid, but which keep the system afloat. These include childcare, voluntary work and even the 'work' of the biosphere.
We don't usually cost these types of work. Economists call these jobs 'externalities', or benefits the capitalist system reaps without paying. In an attempt to bring more of the iceberg to the surface, economists have recently calculated that the work of a stay-at-home parent is equivalent to a salary of $175,000 (€154,778) a year.
Today, if you are sick, elderly or dying, the state hopes that you have a family member who can care for you
Externalities have only grown since the 1970s campaign for wages; invisible work fills the gap between what neoliberalism promises and what it actually delivers.
In her book Family Values, Melinda Cooper argues that state welfare systems increasingly rely on the family – not as a beneficiary, but as a backstop. Neoliberal reforms reimagined the family as the first and proper site of care, responsibility and moral reform. Take changes to child support, for example. In the 1960s, the American welfare system directed its resources not to poor mothers, but to identifying and pursuing biological fathers to compel financial contributions. The state didn't just demand care – it sketched the form it would take, defining who counts as a family.
In this way, Cooper argues, 'welfare reform sought to remind women that an individual man, not the state, was ultimately responsible for their economic security'. Today, if you are sick, elderly or dying, the state hopes that you have a family member who can care for you. When you go to work and your wage won't cover childcare, the state hopes that your family will step in, in the shape of a partner who isn't working outside the home or a grandparent, or an aunt who works from her home as a childminder.
Dunlap's insistence that a man should pay his wife a salary evokes the era of the 'family wage' – when a single income (normally paid to a man) could support an entire family. Today it's far more likely that both partners work outside the home, with (mostly) women taking on a second shift of unpaid care work after hours.
The vitriol and eyerolling comes, I think, from the impossible demand such a claim makes
As some replies to Dunlap's video suggest, a wage for housework isn't just about costing labour. If a partner pays their spouse a wage, the very nature of relationships change. If 'love' hides domestic work, then wages risk turning lovers into co-workers – or worse, employer and employee.
[
What the rows over skorts and public toilets reveal about Irish attitudes to equality
Opens in new window
]
[
Marriage equality 10 years on: A boy sees us hold hands and says 'I f***ing hate gay people'
Opens in new window
]
We're not always comfortable costing externalities. Like a marriage with its own HR department, they risk putting a price on priceless things – like a mother's love for her child. In doing so, these things can be robbed of their real value. It's not about putting a price on love or family, though. It's about exposing the illusion that our care comes without a cost.
So, what would it look like to cost care? Environmental economists propose a Pigouvian tax. Named after the economist Arthur C Pigou, it is levied at corporations to offset the harms they cause but don't usually pay for. Carbon credits are one example. Reparations for centuries of colonial extraction, ecological devastation and slavery in the Global South could be another.
What if we flipped the model? What if we taxed the benefits that capitalism absorbs for free? I'm proposing an inverted Pigouvian tax: a levy on corporations and institutions that profit from the unpaid care work they don't provide. Revenue could be redistributed as a care wage, a universal basic income, or put into public services like childcare and elder care.
Why is a wage for housework
still
so controversial in 2025? It doesn't only come down to sexism. The vitriol and eyerolling comes, I think, from the impossible demand such a claim makes. The reality is that capitalism needs unpaid work.
If we brought all that work on to the ledger – if we counted every nurse suffering from burnout and every exhausted mother – the books wouldn't balance. The system would break.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Irish Times
2 days ago
- Irish Times
Dating in your late-30s? Frozen eggs and more will be on the menu
'Just so you know, I've frozen my eggs .' She delicately perched herself on the chair opposite, just as the waiter handed us the menus. I took a quick scan to see if I was missing something. Were frozen eggs on the menu? At the time, I hadn't been on a date in more than eight years. I was just turning 30. Yes, dating apps and the internet existed back then, kids, but what had developed since was a whole new world of etiquette, games, language, and coded behaviours that I was about to be submerged in without a life jacket, trying not to drown. Dating in your late-30s? Frozen eggs and more will be on the menu. Let me be clear: I didn't want to be out there dating again. My five-year relationship had ended – we tried, but it was done – and I started dating out of pure panic. Who would date me? A single father, a stand-up comedian, still sharing a home with his ex? Take a number for that queue ladies. READ MORE My first date, I thought, went well. A quick drink before my gig, nice chats, cool vibes. I closed the date with what I believed was the obvious line: 'I'd like to do this again'. The scrunched-up look on her face still cuts me to the bone: 'You'll probably want to play the field first.' What did that mean? Surely if there's an attraction, we meet again, no? Later that night, the text arrived: 'I just don't want to be your first one back'. It seemed like if I tried, I was doing it wrong, and if I tried to be open and not try, I was still doing it wrong. One date took place in a park. Takeaway coffees, tight schedules – just a 30-minute hello. I left thinking: there's no way we can know anything about each other in 30 minutes. How wrong I was. In that half-hour, she had determined I wasn't ready for a long-term relationship or to have more children within two years. She was on a schedule and I didn't make the cut according to the WhatsApp essay I received the next morning. Bear in mind: we didn't even know each other's surnames. [ 'I was overheard saying my date wasn't very good-looking. Now he's blocking me' Opens in new window ] I did, however, meet some amazing people. And while it's not the official point of dating, I've made some brilliant friends. Some of the biggest laughs came from evenings with a fellow single parent. There's nothing like bonding over shared trauma after sneaking out of the home she still shared with her ex, so we can sip non-alcoholic beers, talk about parenting, Bluey, and how we don't understand why people hate their own children. And then there were the others – evenings of intimacy with some like-minded creative type, someone who got you the second they kissed you. They carried your heart, told you there was nothing wrong with you – before vanishing back to wherever they came from. 'The men don't help themselves. I've seen the profiles: Leitrim jersey; balaclava; holding a fish.' Photograph: Getty Images Of course, there are the truly embarrassing moments. Like driving home late from a gig in Galway when someone I'd never met in person messages: 'House is free, it's my birthday, I've chosen you'. So, at 2am, I'm dropped off on a road, 'could be fun, dude,' says my driver. Ten minutes later, I am pacing around an estate in the rain while her messages have stopped. How do I explain this to a Garda convinced I am not scoping out a house to rob? Taxi, home. The next morning: a flood of texts. Expletives, apologies. She'd fallen asleep. What woke her? The candles she'd lit had set the curtain on fire. She woke up in the smoke and had to put out the flames. Then: 'Are you free tonight?' Followed by her anger at my rejection: 'You can't be serious – that's it?' I get it. Women are scarred by men's behaviour. Many dating conversations were spent listening to stories of ghosting, or about the latest post on the Facebook page Are We Dating the Same Guy? where women post who they're seeing to see if there are any red flags. And the men don't help themselves. I've seen the profiles: Leitrim jersey; balaclava; holding a fish. If not, they can't seem to keep their tops on. No wonder 'the ick' exists. That said, women have their quirks too. Profiles that read like job descriptions: 'You better be able to make me laugh and be emotionally available'. Pick one. Also, loving dogs is not a personality. Neither is wellness. Or yoga. Or your gym pics. [ Online dating: 'Irish people are terrible on the apps' Opens in new window ] Don't worry, I know I'm the problem. Being a comedian doesn't exactly scream stable, grounded individual gliding calmly through life. That's why we do what we do. Does it sting when someone you liked ends up engaged to an accountant? Yes. But also, no. I can't change who I am. And who I am is complicated. 'Do you feel the need to be funny all the time?' is a common date question. The answer? No. I get paid to do that. And sorry if I'm not funny on the date. That guy you saw on stage? I created him. He comes out when I want. I also hear: 'I have to be careful what I say now or you'll use it in your act'. The ego behind that? That you'll say something so genius I'll scrap decades of work just to fit it into my set? Not to mention that I've yet to be on a date with anyone who is funnier than my seven year old. Let me be clear: nothing anyone has ever said to me has made it into my act. However, it may end up in a column.
Irish Times
5 days ago
- Irish Times
‘My friend's affair with a married man is destroying our friendship'
Dear Roe, A close friend has been involved with a married man for two years. I was deeply uncomfortable with it from the start – my sister's marriage ended due to infidelity, so I know the damage it can cause. But I tried to support my friend, hoping this was a rare, genuine connection and that he would leave his wife respectfully. Two years on, nothing has changed. He always has reasons to delay. My friend no longer discusses it and avoids deeper conversations altogether. Our once-close friendship now feels distant and superficial. Some mutual friends know; others don't. The secrecy and tension are exhausting. I'm getting married this year, and as I addressed her invitation – including a plus-one I know won't be used – it really struck me how much this situation has isolated her. It made me feel both sad and frustrated: I want her there, but I also can't ignore the emotional distance that's opened up between us. I feel torn. I miss our friendship, but I'm also struggling with my own values. Am I enabling something I believe is wrong? Can I be a good friend while feeling increasingly judgmental? Saying anything might destroy the friendship, but staying silent feels dishonest. I don't know what's fair – to her, to myself, or even to the wife who has no idea. How do I navigate this? Navigating a situation like this, especially when it intertwines love, loyalty, personal values and long-held friendship, is one of the more painful and complex emotional crossroads we can encounter. Your heartache is understandable, not just because you're watching someone you care about shrink themselves for a relationship that brings them more secrecy than joy, but also because your own inner compass is being stretched between empathy and integrity. You are grieving a friendship that once thrived in openness and trust, and now exists behind a veil of avoidance, half-truths and unspoken things. You're allowed to want more, and to want to do more. Contrary to some current popular beliefs, being a good friend does not mean unconditional support for everything a person does, or silently watching someone self-destruct, or endorsing choices that go against your deepest values. Sometimes being a good friend is telling someone that you value them so much that you need to ask, 'With love, what the hell are you doing?' READ MORE [ 'My sister won't leave her bad relationship - and I'm pretty sure she's having an affair' Opens in new window ] I know you're scared to speak honestly to her, particularly because she has already pulled away. But remember that it's unlikely she has gone silent out of apathy for you, but due to shame. She probably fears what you'll say and the mirror you'll hold up to her. But friendship can't thrive in silence. You're right to name what this silence has started to cost you, and her, too. Ask for a conversation. A real one, not performative or polite, where you both show up with humility and courage, assuming each other's good intentions, and willing, as best you can, not to be defensive but to truly listen. You can't control how she'll receive honesty, but you can offer it with care. When you speak to her, begin with love. Tell her that you miss her. That you've noticed the distance, that you feel it, and that it hurts not because you're judging her from some high horse, but because she matters to you and you feel like you're losing her in slow motion. Tell her that talking honestly about this has felt dangerous, like you're risking your friendship – but that you believe your friendship deserves that risk. Tell her you're worried about her. About the life she's been living, hidden and small, about the way her relationship seems defined by loneliness and isolation, about the way it has slowly eroded her friendships, her openness, even the possibility of showing up in your life fully, like at your wedding, where she cannot even bring the person she's in love with. Tell her gently, but honestly, that it saddens you to see her world shrink this way. And if it feels right, you can tell her that you struggle with the fact that there's another woman, a wife, who has no idea her life is being altered behind her back, and that because you care about all women, that feels hard to carry. You could tell her that if the roles were reversed, if she were the one married and being lied to, you know you would be outraged on her behalf. Tell her that as you prepare to get married, you would hope she would be outraged and devastated for you if you were ever betrayed in your relationship. Tell her that part of what's painful here is realising that the same sense of care and outrage seems absent when it comes to another woman. Say this without blame, but with the quiet honesty of someone who still believes their friend can rise into something truer and stronger than this. You can express compassion for how difficult it must be to love someone who is already in a relationship; you can tell her you empathise with what she must have gone through the past two years being treated like a secret by the man she loves and that fearing judgment on top of that must feel hard. You can empathise with her and be generous – but you can also treat her like an adult who is capable of understanding that there are consequences to her actions, and that when she has an affair, that is going to create a big value divide between her and a lot of people. It's then her decision to stay with this man or to choose something different. She may need to walk through this entire chapter alone, for as long as it takes, before the lesson settles deep in her bones Invite her to ask herself some real questions – not rhetorical, not angry, but sincere. Is this enough? What does she want love to look like in her life? What kind of friendships does she want? Ask her if this man, not in his promises but in his actual actions, is helping her live the kind of life she wants. Ask her how long she's willing to keep sacrificing her joy, her openness, her community, for a love that keeps her hidden, and promises of a hypothetical future that never seems to arrive. You can, if it's true for you, end by telling her that while you don't understand her choices right now, you do still love her, and that if she ever chooses to walk away from this relationship, whether tomorrow or a year from now, you'll be right there, without judgment, with a bouquet of roses and arms wide open, ready to remind her of her strength and her worth. But also remind yourself: she is an adult. She may need to walk through this entire chapter alone, for as long as it takes, before the lesson settles deep in her bones. One day she will hopefully realise that she both deserves better and needs to do better, and she will walk away – and you want that moment to be completely hers, so that she feels more wise and empowered, so that she can believe that she saved herself, so that she can truly absorb the lesson and integrate it into her life. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is not rescue, not condemn, but to speak our truth, set our boundaries, and let the other person choose their path, knowing we'll be there with grace, not shame, if and when they return to themselves. Speak to her. Speak with love, with honesty, with hope. Then, allow her the dignity of choosing what kind of life she wants to live, knowing that you chose to be honest in yours. Good luck. .form-group {width:100% !important;}
Irish Times
6 days ago
- Irish Times
Hugh Linehan: My right eye is now failing too. The world is slipping away, just a little, just enough to notice
As a child, I used to sneak into my father's study to leaf through his books on cinema. Fellini. Bergman. Kubrick. Hitchcock. It felt like trespassing into a world of illicit imagery and adult mystery. These volumes weren't all dry theoretical texts. They were illustrated, full of blurry black and white stills, images from strange films I'd never have been allowed to watch at the time. Some of them I didn't even know by name, but the images etched themselves into my memory with the precision of dreams. Again and again they returned to one motif: the eye. There was the infamous blade slicing open an eyeball in Un Chien Andalou (1929), a scene that retains the power to provoke a full-body flinch nearly a century after it was first projected. Marion Crane's wide, disbelieving stare as her lifeblood swirled down the shower drain in Psycho (1960). Alex in A Clockwork Orange (1971), lids pinned back as he was subjected to his regime of aversion therapy. It was the eye as portal, as vulnerability, as violence, as punishment. None of these images are comforting. And in retrospect, I wonder if my uneasy fascination with them, and the squeamishness I have always had about anything getting too close to my own eyes, has something to do with the fact that I've never had two working ones. Like Sauron, albeit with somewhat less malice or magical powers, I have always depended on just the one. My hopelessly shortsighted left eye is amblyopic, or what people used to call lazy, to the point of uselessness. But now my right eye is failing too. READ MORE Not entirely. But enough that I can no longer read printed books, documents or newspapers. Enough that I find it difficult to recognise faces, even those I know well. Enough that the world has become, gradually but inexorably, something I have to navigate more slowly and more carefully. The terrain has changed, and I am having to learn how to move through it all over again. There are good reasons, of course, why evolution equipped most of us with a spare eye, not least when it comes to judging depth and distance. My personal experience is that these reasons include having the ability to play tennis without embarrassment or eat soup without incident. But for the most part, one (mildly shortsighted) good eye has served me well enough over the years. But it did leave me without a safety net. Despite a lifelong fascination with image-making that has included stints as an illustrator, film worker and movie and TV critic, I never really paid enough attention to how vision actually works. The lens at the front of the eye focuses light on to the retina at the back. There, a thin layer of photosensitive cells converts the light into neural impulses that the optic nerve transmits to the brain. The brain, performing its usual miracles, assembles those signals into a coherent picture. And we call that picture 'reality'. At the very centre of the retina is a five-millimetre-wide area called the macula. It's packed with light-sensitive cells and is responsible for our central vision. It allows us to read, to recognise faces, to distinguish colour and detail. It's also where my trouble lies. On the ophthalmologist's screen, blown up to an uncomfortably large scale, my macula looks like a faraway planet: a red disc with pale, mottled areas near the centre. These blotches are now my terra incognita, where the layers of cells are breaking down and not being replaced. A kind of biological erosion is at work, like a carpet being worn down to the threads. Hugh Linehan: 'These days I smile vaguely at anyone who passes me in the office. They could be a close colleague or a complete stranger, but it seems safer to be friendly than risk giving someone the cold shoulder.' Photograph: Bryan O'Brien The name for this irreversible process is macular degeneration, and it's one of the most common causes of sight loss in the developed world. The age-related form is relatively well known, especially among older people. But it can also be genetic or associated with other conditions such as diabetes. In my case, it turns out to be inherited. I'm 62, the sort of age that looks young from the vantage point of 85 and ancient from the perspective of 25. Still, it's on the early side for age-related macular degeneration. So the doctors dug a little deeper. A DNA swab was sent to Finland, revealing a mutation in a gene called PRPH2, which produces proteins in the retinal cells. Apparently, this gene doesn't always do what it's supposed to do. None of this is entirely comforting, especially since no one in my family, as far as I know, has had these symptoms. (My siblings and children are now welcome to be tested if they so choose.) But it does provide a kind of explanation. More importantly, it adds a little more information to the worldwide project of genetic puzzle-solving that will hopefully lead to new treatments and therapies. And, more practically, it allows me to start making adjustments. These days I smile vaguely at anyone who passes me in the office. They could be a close colleague or a complete stranger, but it seems safer to be friendly than risk giving someone the cold shoulder. I no longer exercise my sacred birthright as a Dubliner to jaywalk, as the gaps in my field of vision mean I could easily miss an approaching vehicle. Instead, I wait stoically at intersections, relying on the green man and increasingly on the electronic beep. I carry a nifty little device that combines a torch and a magnifying glass, which allows me to read printed material such as price tags and receipts. Mr Magoo, the once-beloved cartoon character, has long since been consigned to pop culture's naughty step, alongside all the other ableists, racists and sexists. But I now better understand his predicament. There is a particular kind of comedy that emerges from misperception, though in real life it can be less amusing. I have said hello to empty chairs. Attempted to pour coffee into upside-down cups. I misread expressions. I fail to notice cues. These new, surprising social awkwardnesses pile up on top of all the old familiar ones. There are other losses, large and small. I can no longer follow the action in a football match or pluck a book from the shelf to check a reference. I deeply miss appreciating a film or a painting in the way its maker intended. Professionally, I feel the diminishment too. I once prided myself on having a 'good eye' for a photograph, a composition, a page layout. It was an important part of what I brought to the job. These days, not so much. And yet, something unexpected remains. One of the things that sight is supposed to give us – perhaps the most important – is human connection. A century of research tells us that eye contact, facial expressions and micro-gestures, play a crucial role in how we communicate. The shift to digital and remote communication has stripped away much of this subtlety, to our collective detriment. Or so the theory goes. Hugh Linehan whose left eye is amblyopic. He is now experiencing macular degeneration in his right eye, what he once called his 'good eye'. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien But my experience doesn't entirely bear that out. There are lapses in understanding, of course. I sat recently across from a podcast guest, someone for whom emotional intelligence is part of their personal brand. I could sense that they were giving me 'a look', but I had no idea what it meant. I was going through my new routine of taking my glasses off and putting them on again, which probably looked like an affectation. The usual feedback loop was broken. But we still had a conversation. Maybe I was just overthinking it. If, like me, you've ever been advised that for your own psychological wellbeing you need to spend less time trapped in your own head and more time engaging with the actual world, then the prospect of losing one of your senses presents a particular kind of challenge. The world is slipping away, just a little, just enough to notice. [ Genetic cures on demand: 'Within four weeks, the vision in his eyes had doubled' Opens in new window ] And yet, I'm not going blind. Macular degeneration affects central vision, not peripheral. A helpful information sheet advises me, rather grimly, I feel, that I 'will always be able to see sufficiently to walk around your house and your garden'. Another one says more encouragingly that most people 'can also make their way to town and do the shopping and other tasks with ease'. It's not the reassurance I might have wished for in my youth, but at this stage, I'll take it. The greatest moment of relief comes in mid-May when Emma Duignan, one of my two excellent and empathetic ophthalmologists (the other is Max Treacy), says the words I most need to hear: 'You'll always be able to read.' Not on paper, and the screens may need adjusting. The text might even grow to monstrous sizes. But the act itself – the miracle of text becoming meaning – will remain within reach. Jorge Luis Borges , whose vision was poor from childhood, lost his sight completely at the age of 58, having just been appointed director of the National Library of Argentina. He was surrounded by millions of books he could no longer read. In his essay, Blindness, he explored his condition not as a tragedy, but as a kind of destiny. Borges is the melancholic, ironic laureate of vision loss. I find his writing on the subject comforting and intimidating in equal measure. He described his world not as darkness, but as a 'greenish, cloudy mist', a perceptual veil rather than a void. For 25 years, he lived within that mist and continued to write with astonishing clarity. I cannot claim anything so profound. But I take some solace in the fact that unlike Borges, who died in 1986, I live in a time when sight loss is not what it once was. Surgical advances have transformed the lives of millions. Cataracts can be removed in half an hour. Laser treatment has liberated people from Coke-bottle lenses. Genetic research is moving with startling speed, hinting at future therapies that once seemed like science fiction. [ Blind no longer: 'For the first time in over a decade, I can see the world around me' Opens in new window ] And then there is digital technology. Audiobooks, screen readers, text-to-voice applications – anything can now be turned into robotic but perfectly intelligible audio within seconds. Admittedly, the experience of 'reading' in this way is different. It's slower, less immersive and rather less satisfying. But it's still reading, of a kind. And it remains a bridge to the world of ideas when my poor declining eye can't take the strain of a screen any more. A recent article in the New Yorker explored the new generation of assistive spectacles for deaf people that can turn conversations into real-time subtitles that unspool across the lenses. Would such a thing be possible for sight loss? It seems plausible. For the moment, though, I am just learning to see in a new way. Still in the world. Still fumbling and stumbling. Not able to see where I'm going, but still pressing on.
