I complained to my husband about taking our son to the dentist and fluffed it. This hadn’t been a particularly traumatic trip. In fact, it was routine at worst. My three-year-old bounced up onto the chair and bared his teeth like a lion. He jumped at the opportunity to wear protective glasses, pronounced them ‘cool’ and sat (mostly) still throughout the check-up.

But the complaint I made at home wasn’t about the dentist, or even that I had been the one to take my son to the dentist. It was more nuanced. I was frustrated at being the one responsible for remembering to go in the first place. I was frustrated that while my partner and I are equal on the doing of parenting and household administration and upkeep, I seem to be mostly responsible for its management.