The Bewildered Housewife

A great many responses to my previous post were from very angry women.  Most of them perceived that I was comparing the merits of being a housewife with the merits of being a mother/working mother/stay at home mother, etc.

What is most bewildering to Bewildered Housewife is that nowhere in my missive did I mention any comparisons.  Nowhere did I breathe a word about the worth of working mothers.  Where, exactly, did I imply anything at all about mothers, working or not, and where, exactly, were workloads compared?  Please peruse the first seven paragraphs for reference. 

Oh, you mean the pizza and cocktails comment has our panties in a bunch?  Tsk.  That was an observation of another couple we know, and what they do nearly every night.  In fact, spending time with them recently and seeing that pattern while fielding questions all night about what I “do” spurred the writing of my post.  I’m sorry if that hit a sore spot for you.  These are the perils of writing, my friends.  We are bound to see ourselves in someone’s material at some point, and it’s our decision to take it personally or not.    

As a final word on the matter (because it is my blog, after all) at no place and at no point is it my job as a writer to:

A) Justify my material

B) Be belittled by a reader’s projections

C) Post abusive commentary

D) Change a single word

On a side note, I was raised by a working mother who has been, and continues to be, the most amazing example of Woman I have ever known.  It is simply bizarre that so many perceive a Defense of Housewifery to be, by its nature, equal to an attack on working motherhood.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  It is the projections that have created a polarity, filling in blanks that are not even there.  One woman’s choice for her own life has nothing at all to do with another woman’s choice for hers.  And yet clearly, so many take it personally, as if Limited Good were in effect.  It’s an incongruency that needs some attention - and one that won’t be resolved until dialogue takes place that can be raised above the adolescent level of name-calling and multiple exclamation points.  

At any rate, I am done with this topic for now.  In Defense of Housewifery was written as a response to an occurence in my life, not as a means to unwind the tangled web of an entire society’s views of femininity and worth.  Onward.

As is customary among most American adults, I am often asked what I do for a living.  Whereas I used to dazzle my audience with my resume from the past ten years, I now give a different answer.  Depending on my syllabic mood, I say that I am either a homemaker or a housewife.  In a few short months from now, I’ll have my job title distilled down to one succinct word: MOM.

And then I wait for the inevitable reaction:  First, eyebrows raise in surprise.  Close on those heels comes the usual, slightly passive-aggressive platitude, “Well, THAT must be nice.”  I tell them that no, sitting around eating bon-bons all day must be nice.  What I do actually keeps me busy and on my toes. 

“So, what DO you do all day?” they ask.  What, you mean besides being secretary, accountant, nurse, therapist, housekeeper, laundress, nutritionist, personal shopper, event planner, decorator, executive chef, and, oh yeah, pregnant?  Why, I just sit around eating bon-bons all day.

What is odd is that it never occurs to me to ask what other professionals do all day long.  It’s a question that makes its way specifically toward housewives and other similar women.  Its asking is intended to marginilize us, as if no task we carry out could possibly be as important or necessary as the things that other working people do.  For reasons I have yet to understand, divulging this information makes us a fair target for others’ judgements, as if as stay-home women we become property, kept or child-like, and need to justify our actions and motives even to strangers.

Important to note is that not everyone holds judgment or demands explanation.  I do encounter people - granted, not often - who don’t bat an eyelash, but rather greet my response with a satisfied nod.  It’s no strange coincidence that these are all people who have set their own lives up in such a way as to be doing the things that they love.  Some of it might pass as “official business”, but all of it qualifies as passion.  I have come to imagine that the people who have conciously created their realities don’t find the concept offensive.  It takes a fulfilled person to understand fulfillment.  This is because a satisfied person has had to first embrace the possibility of an authentic existence in order to create it.  A happy person has the capacity to be happy for others.  On the contrary, a dissatisfied person has a compromised ability to imagine satisaction, let alone to be pleased with someone else’s version of it.  To them, satisfaction is always somehow partnered with guilt (guilt for seeking satisfaction, guilt for not seeking it), and it’s a happy housewife’s funny fate to often be an object of that projection.  In reality, my being a housewife (and soon to be stay at home mom) is not a problem - it’s actually YOUR problem.

Is this all to say that I have no desire or drive to do or be anything else?  Of course not.  Am I able to hold a provocative, informed conversation on a myriad of current, cultural and/or academic topics?  Sure am.  Will I continue my education once the babies are a few years old?  You bet I will.  Will I fufill my other dreams of teaching college, writing books, and contributing positively to my larger environment?  There is not a doubt in my mind.

But will I allow my desires for the future to undermine the importance or joy of the commitment I have made to my home and family in the present time?  Absofreakinglutely not.  And I won’t let you do that, either.

In short, I don’t cluck my tongue at you for chopping your hair off and schlepping for a boss so that you can share bitter cocktails at 5pm and order a pizza for your child after daycare.  You’ve made your choice.

This one’s mine.

All of the animals are ill today, and it’s got me upset.  Pablo the bodhisattva cat has a cold, and his sneezes are the most heartbreaking thing.  How is he supposed to save the world like this?  Tigger the gentleman kitty has been leaving very un-gentlemanly deposits in the litter box but still remains polite about it, announcing immediately that clean-up is needed in aisle 5.  It’s already too late by then to spare our noses, but we appreciate the effort.

Mischa the dog has it the worst of all.  His right ear hurts and is presenting in a sad droop that makes his otherwise perfectly symmetrical lion’s mane appear lopsided.  He is even ignoring his Teddy, which normally provides for hours of bearish fun.  I catch a view of this depressing scene each time I walk past the bedroom, where he has taken to moping since I informed him of our collective visit to the vet clinic later in the day.  Maybe he thinks his depression will change my mind about taking him in, and I have to admit that I am tempted.  Mischa has the uncanny ability to wear his heart on one furry little sleeve and could probably bring about peace between Palestine and Israel just by sitting there, looking worried.

Although every logical cell in my brain implores me not to, I am going to herd these three sickos into my car this afternoon and hope that World War III does not erupt while I’m driving.  None of them are particularly good drivers, so I am counting on them to remain strapped into their passenger seats, arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.  It has all the makings of a bad joke.  So an explosive cat, a bodhisattva and a Chow walk into a car… 

I’ll give you the punchline just as soon I find out what it is.