When you think of the word “housewife”, what comes to mind first? For me, it’s not those squawking upper-crusty, sassy-mouthed ladies that appear on the Bravo network, or a barefoot and pregnant woman. What I see is a perfectly polished, apron wearing, sickeningly sweet and positive woman baking a pie while wearing pumps. So, basically, the 1950’s; where everything was swell and life was grand
But… I’m a housewife. And…. I don’t look anything like that.
I love the 1950’s. The fashion, the hair, even the decorating- but times have changed. TIMES have changed, but not the view of how housewives “should” be.
I’ve read articles about how housewives back then were so skinny because they burned buttloads of calories by constantly doing housework every single day. Scrubbing ovens, baseboards, sweeping, mopping, waxing, shining. All of that on TOP of baking a cake and preparing a four course meal that is ready and on the table by the time the husband comes home.
Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be scrubbing baseboards while baking a pie and wearing heels any time soon. Actually, I’m NOT sorry. That shit sounds crazy to me! Yesterday, Thomas gave me all kinds of ideas of what to make for dinner, and…. I just didn’t. No ruined souffle, no exploded oven- I just didn’t really FEEL like making anything. We ended up going out to dinner instead. Does that mean I’m not living up to my role?
I am FAILING at this whole housewife thing!
Until I was HUGELY pregnant with Holden and on bed-rest, the thought of not returning to work outside the home wasn’t one that even entered my mind. I’d been on my own and working since I turned 18. Going back to work only seemed natural. I couldn’t do it. It was then that I made the conscious choice to stay at home with Holden. I made the choice to be a, for lack of a better term, housewife.
This isn’t the point in the story where I go into some long drawn out sappy story about how I went on some kind of Sisterhood of the Traveling Vagina journey to find my inner housewife and am now a connoisseur of the perfect slab of roast beef. Honestly, that sounds more like the title of a bad porno film. I haven’t decided to burn my bra and go back to work. I’m not anti-feminism. I’m nbot anti-housewife either. I actually really like the choice I made to stay home… other than the times I’m looking at a 5 foot high pile of stanky dirty clothes, or finish the dishes only to find MORE dirty dishes I’d somehow missed.
I’m not, nor will I ever be the perfect 50’s housewife. This isn’t the 1950’s! As much as I love pie, we’ve learned over the years that baking one of those every single night isn’t exactly the healthiest thing to be doing. While I feel like it is mostly my responsibility to keep the house from devolving into utter chaos, these days, men are encouraged to help take the load off; to be more like equal partners than “He’s the MAN, and she’s the WOMAN, and therefore, this is how things have to be because it’s proper.”
I’d love to burn 2,000 calories while doing menial housework, but cleaning, baking, and cooking aren’t really my priority. I’ll get that shit done eventually- but if my husband comes home demanding a roast on the table, the only ass catching on fire is going to be him.
You can love me or hate me, think I’m lazy or not doing what I “should” be doing, but I- along with SO many other ladies- are the modern housewife. Deal with it!
How you win at parenting pic.twitter.com/vFxCsfqmh7
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