I am a daughter of the Women's Movement.
I grew up with Ms. Magazine around the house, and even once sent in an ad I found offensive for their "No Comment" section. (I think I was offended that they linked smoking with being an empowered woman). I was the perfect age for "Free to Be...You and Me." (Mommies are people...people with children...) It was assumed I would go to college and launch a profession. The constant message I heard was that I COULD DO ANYTHING!
Then life happened.
I did go to college, but, unfortunately, received a degree that just doesn't launch into a career without a lot more schooling. (BA in psychology, right up there with English in my book!) Instead of grad school I got my MRS degree. The incredible Mr. Tom is worth it.
I finally stumbled into something of a career path when I took the job of legal assistant at a local Social Security Disability law firm. That job, unfortunately, coincided with the beginning of the motherhood phase. No problem, right?
To be truthful, I really don't think I would have been a good full-time mom, especially not in those days. I took 3 months off from work with each baby, was lucky enough to have an excellent childcare provider down the street, and I didn't find returning to work traumatic. In fact, I looked forward to it. They (the children) were happy where they were, and I was happy where I was. I needed the human contact and status that the job gave me.
For a brief shining moment I seemed to have it all, but all it gave me was something of a breakdown. My job would suffer if a child got sick, didn't sleep well, or had a special school event. And the house, never really known to be spotless, was a wreck. I was a wreck. It was the classic situation of trying to do two jobs, neither one very well. I mean, I probably did OK, but it was stressful! I quickly realized that "having it all" really meant being able to delegate chunks of one's life: day-to-day child rearing (which I really had no problem with, emotionally), and/or housekeeping, which I couldn't afford to outsource. I've come to appreciate that the lion's share of professional women (A kinda funny-sounding phrase. What does that make me, an amateur woman?) who are successful and happy have nannies and housekeepers. I had neither.
Through a process really too long to go into here, I gradually made the shift to homemaker/at-home mom, ironically after my children were both in grade school. (Such timing!) While commenting on one of my blog entries, Chuck A. commented on his time spent as stay-at-home dad, and how it was strangely unsatisfying to which I say AMEN, BROTHER!
Keeping house and parenting are, as Chuck pointed out, exhausting. Mainly because it's never ending. Laundry and dishes remind me of Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill - no sooner is it done when more comes rolling back. And is there any way to scrub a tub that is not back-breaking? And, I'm sorry, living creates clutter. It just does.
Even worse, I think, is the boredom, which is my undoing. I crave intellectual stimulation, and listening to NPR every day can only do so much. There is nothing inherently interesting in scrubbing the floor, although I do find vacuuming to be kinda Zen since it does such a good job of shutting out the outside world. Oh, sure, there is reading and crossword puzzles and such, but add a young child or two and that becomes fairly impossible. Even worse is the repetitive activity phase in which a small child takes great delight in repeating the same mundane task over and over (i.e. pretend trick-or-treating, pretend checking out at the grocery store) until one's brain is screaming for mercy.
And then, if these things aren't enough to make the homemaking/parenting job unsatisfying, then serve-up a heaping helping of good old-fashioned guilt and lack of status on the side. I am woman, remember? Hear me roar? I had pioneers before me who broke down walls and threw themselves against the glass ceiling so that I didn't have to stay home. But I am staying home, and it feels a bit like I'm letting my sisters down.
But why is that? Because of the even more fundamental problem that homemaking and nurturing are so seriously undervalued in our society. This attitude is not, I believe, the fault of the women's movement. I believe women were moved to escape from the home because it was a role held in such contempt. Look at early sitcoms. ("Donna Reed," "I Love Lucy," "Mr. Ed"...you know, the good ones). The women are childlike, helpless, and UNBELIEVABLY STUPID. Who wouldn't want to get away from that?
It's ironic that the more hands-on the care, the lower the status the job is accorded. I've heard it said that it's really too bad that nurses and teachers aren't respected and paid like corporate executives or sports stars are. True. But nurses and teachers are social and financial giants compared to nurses aides and babysitters. Aides are considered low-skill and thus poorly paid, attracting people to the job who may not feel they have many other options. Is that the sort of person you want caring for your most basic and private personal needs? Ditto with babysitting. It seems to be a job for the person who can't get a job.
At least when I tell people I do childcare, I do get a lot of people who commend me for doing such important work and think it perfectly acceptable to get paid. (And believe me, it ain't much.) If, however, I were caring for my OWN child and expecting to get paid for it in the form of, say, public assistance, I would be labeled a lazy sponge, even though the work I'd be doing is largely the same.
What is my point?
Well, I call myself a "post-feminist" because by my generation the stereotypes were already crumbling, but we're still defining and re-defining our social roles. I was told I could do it all, but I really couldn't. Not happily. I have a critical voice in my head for being a woman of intellect without professional credentials to show for it. But I've also discovered that homemaker is a crucial role. Somebody really has to do it, or pay someone else to do it for them.
I'm of the school that says we need to reclaim "woman's work" and accord it the respect it deserves. And it doesn't need to be done by a woman, we should be equally supportive of homemaker dads. Each person should be allowed to do as they are best suited.
Free to be...you and me.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
And So a Story Ends
I read obituaries. My daughters think this is weird. My mom says it's a small town thing. I liken it to riding in a car down a highway at night and seeing illuminated house windows. Each one offers a fleeting glimpse of a life in progress, whether eating dinner, watching TV, or performing some mundane task. I note the scene and imagine a story.
Obituaries are a similar snapshot of a life. Was the person married? Single all their life but with a "special friend"? Did they have children? What were their interests? I'm also interested in the pictures that accompany the write-ups, and what does it mean when the best the family could come up with is some badly out of focus or horribly-lit shot? Some obits document lives of tragedy, or accomplishment. I'm most touched by the ones that speak of the person's nature and really give a feeling for why that person is going to be missed. Each life is a story full of ups and downs and important lessons learned. I feel that by reading the story, however brief, in an obituary I am somehow honoring the fact that this person existed and that they had a story to tell. They were more than a name.
This is the same reason that I read the list of U.S. military deaths printed daily in the Cleveland paper. I am pretty much unaffected directly by the wars we are fighting, but I feel it is important to pay attention to the fact that they are happening. And each soldier is not just a number, but a name. And each name is a story that has come to a tragically early end. I read the name, age, and hometown, and try to imagine the story that took that person to such a foreign land.
Today, for the first time, I saw a name from my hometown. MY hometown. Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, which, contrary to what the name sounds like, is not a military post at all. It's a town whose main claim to fame is being home of The National Dairy Shrine. I don't live there anymore, but it's where I grew up and it will always be my hometown.
I felt a shock. Lance Cpl. Jacob A. Meinert was only 20 years old. The last name sounded vaguely familiar like a name I remembered hearing while growing up. It's possible I went to school with his parents.
I didn't know him, but I know where he came from. A lot has changed about Fort since I left. I very much doubt that we would have had any of the same teachers. The first school I attended is now an apartment building (Caswell), my first middle school closed (Emory? Emery?), the junior high is now administrative offices, I think (James F. Luther), and my high school is now the middle school. But I bet he went to The Frostee Freeze, and walked along the Rock River, and gazed at the same church spire (St. Paul's Lutheran Church) that is visible all over town.
Unfortunately there have been military deaths of young people from Northern Ohio, although none from Oberlin. I find the stories sad, and see how it affects a whole community, but have never felt personally touched like I did with Lance Cpl. Meinert. I can readily picture his story. He died supporting combat operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan -- a world away, I'm sure, from the rolling farmlands of southern Wisconsin. But he carried with him some of the same images, I bet, that I treasure.
Suddenly those six degrees of separation seem awfully close.
Into your hands, oh Lord, I commend his spirit.
Obituaries are a similar snapshot of a life. Was the person married? Single all their life but with a "special friend"? Did they have children? What were their interests? I'm also interested in the pictures that accompany the write-ups, and what does it mean when the best the family could come up with is some badly out of focus or horribly-lit shot? Some obits document lives of tragedy, or accomplishment. I'm most touched by the ones that speak of the person's nature and really give a feeling for why that person is going to be missed. Each life is a story full of ups and downs and important lessons learned. I feel that by reading the story, however brief, in an obituary I am somehow honoring the fact that this person existed and that they had a story to tell. They were more than a name.
This is the same reason that I read the list of U.S. military deaths printed daily in the Cleveland paper. I am pretty much unaffected directly by the wars we are fighting, but I feel it is important to pay attention to the fact that they are happening. And each soldier is not just a number, but a name. And each name is a story that has come to a tragically early end. I read the name, age, and hometown, and try to imagine the story that took that person to such a foreign land.
Today, for the first time, I saw a name from my hometown. MY hometown. Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, which, contrary to what the name sounds like, is not a military post at all. It's a town whose main claim to fame is being home of The National Dairy Shrine. I don't live there anymore, but it's where I grew up and it will always be my hometown.
I felt a shock. Lance Cpl. Jacob A. Meinert was only 20 years old. The last name sounded vaguely familiar like a name I remembered hearing while growing up. It's possible I went to school with his parents.
I didn't know him, but I know where he came from. A lot has changed about Fort since I left. I very much doubt that we would have had any of the same teachers. The first school I attended is now an apartment building (Caswell), my first middle school closed (Emory? Emery?), the junior high is now administrative offices, I think (James F. Luther), and my high school is now the middle school. But I bet he went to The Frostee Freeze, and walked along the Rock River, and gazed at the same church spire (St. Paul's Lutheran Church) that is visible all over town.
Unfortunately there have been military deaths of young people from Northern Ohio, although none from Oberlin. I find the stories sad, and see how it affects a whole community, but have never felt personally touched like I did with Lance Cpl. Meinert. I can readily picture his story. He died supporting combat operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan -- a world away, I'm sure, from the rolling farmlands of southern Wisconsin. But he carried with him some of the same images, I bet, that I treasure.
Suddenly those six degrees of separation seem awfully close.
Into your hands, oh Lord, I commend his spirit.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Ring in The New!
I was startled when I saw the first of the "Best of the Decade" lists in some magazine. Really? This is the end of an entire decade? (OK. Not really. I know, I KNOW the decade ends when 2011 begins. But still.)
The new millenium was 10 years ago? I mentioned Y2K to Miriam and she stared at me blankly. "You know, when all the computers were going to crash and it was going to be the end of the world as we knew it?" Still nothing. Oh, yeah. She was only 2 1/2 when that happened.
Time is funny stuff. One day, one moment, can be an eternity. The past 10 years slipped right by. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone born in the 1980's is actually a legal adult. How does this happen?
And how will we remember this decade? And what the heck will we call it? The zeroes?
It has been a zero in a way. We've made an intimate acquaintance, as a nation, with terrorism. We're suffering through some low-grade wars. The current economic slowdown has been nothing to sneeze at.
But there's good stuff, too. Facebook, for example. I'm finding people I'd lost track of and it's my lifeline to the world. My girls have gone from little girls to young women. OK. Maybe that was a mixed blessing. But overall good.
But mostly the past 10 years have been planning suppers, getting people to school, running errands, and the various other minutae of daily life. Life is, after all, the stuff that happens while we're busy making other plans. Next year I'll be babysitting and dogsitting. Groceries will be bought, the floors will still need cleaned. The alarm will still be going off too early. I'll be focused on trying to make every deadline that each day presents, and, before I know it, another 10 years will go by.
Happy New Year. I hope twenty-ten brings everyone peace, love, and the perfectly ordinary.
The new millenium was 10 years ago? I mentioned Y2K to Miriam and she stared at me blankly. "You know, when all the computers were going to crash and it was going to be the end of the world as we knew it?" Still nothing. Oh, yeah. She was only 2 1/2 when that happened.
Time is funny stuff. One day, one moment, can be an eternity. The past 10 years slipped right by. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone born in the 1980's is actually a legal adult. How does this happen?
And how will we remember this decade? And what the heck will we call it? The zeroes?
It has been a zero in a way. We've made an intimate acquaintance, as a nation, with terrorism. We're suffering through some low-grade wars. The current economic slowdown has been nothing to sneeze at.
But there's good stuff, too. Facebook, for example. I'm finding people I'd lost track of and it's my lifeline to the world. My girls have gone from little girls to young women. OK. Maybe that was a mixed blessing. But overall good.
But mostly the past 10 years have been planning suppers, getting people to school, running errands, and the various other minutae of daily life. Life is, after all, the stuff that happens while we're busy making other plans. Next year I'll be babysitting and dogsitting. Groceries will be bought, the floors will still need cleaned. The alarm will still be going off too early. I'll be focused on trying to make every deadline that each day presents, and, before I know it, another 10 years will go by.
Happy New Year. I hope twenty-ten brings everyone peace, love, and the perfectly ordinary.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Holly-Daze!! Random Christmas Thoughts
The presents are open, dinner eaten, I've been to church and talked to my distant family. This is my favorite part of the holiday. How rare it is to have moments where literally, except for breathing and such, there is nothing I HAVE to do. Except travel across town to care for a friend's german shepherd mix I affectionately call Cujo. I have a break from babysitting for the holiday, so naturally I'm dog-sitting. Sigh.
Oh my blog, I have missed you. I've composed so much in my head that just stayed there. It's been a combination of a recalcitrant laptop, caring for a toddler, and basic inertia. Good to be back. Again.
I was somewhat unsatisfied with my Christmas letter this year. I wasn't really feeling it. So, hey, what better than to report directly from the trenches?
It's been a lovely Christmas. Perhaps my favorite moment came this morning when my normally sardonic teenager looked up from her stocking, beamed beautifically, and said it was a really nice Christmas. I melted.
Although it was not easy, I wouldn't say Advent was stressful. We took turns with various ailments and I've basically had a sore throat since Thanksgiving. It really put a crimp in my holiday frenzy and I must say that, ultimately, I was OK with that. In my fantasy the house is beautifully, tastefully, and whimsically decorated (and clean, of course). I would host a cozy gathering of my dearest friends complete with wassail and perhaps a cookie exchange. We would have an advent calendar and a richly appointed nativity scene replete with angels in heaven.
In reality, we did manage to get a tree which Miriam decorated on Christmas Eve. And all thanks and credit to Tom who shouldered the burden of Christmas shopping and really pulled the house together. He truly is a helpmate. Amelia nipped at my heels to make cookie dough and she and Miriam worked on (and squabbled about) the baking project. As I look back on it I realize it was a real team effort this year.
I also bet that we only used about 30% of our Christmas stuff. I treasure it all, but for now I'm happy with lights, a tree with selections from our ornament collection, and the stuffed fabric nativity scene my sister made for me some years ago.
One source of joy this year is the fact that the girls seem to value the experience of Christmas as much as, if not more than, the presents. They enjoy the preparation. They had fun planning gifts for each other and the parents. They love the music and TV shows. Amelia worked really hard on a scrapbook she made for her best friend. Some of our worst moments actually came while we were shopping. They both are still teenagers, you know.
Yes, Advent was rough, and there were quite a few moments when I felt run-down and like I was going through the motions. But the motions were not a bad thing. And I am at complete peace at this moment (ouch, now officially the day AFTER Christmas) because even though it wasn't Home and Gardens, it was beautiful. Our Christmas dinner was a little funky (who pairs yorkshire pudding with ham?), I never did see my friends, but my little family was happy. What more could I want?
Oh my blog, I have missed you. I've composed so much in my head that just stayed there. It's been a combination of a recalcitrant laptop, caring for a toddler, and basic inertia. Good to be back. Again.
I was somewhat unsatisfied with my Christmas letter this year. I wasn't really feeling it. So, hey, what better than to report directly from the trenches?
It's been a lovely Christmas. Perhaps my favorite moment came this morning when my normally sardonic teenager looked up from her stocking, beamed beautifically, and said it was a really nice Christmas. I melted.
Although it was not easy, I wouldn't say Advent was stressful. We took turns with various ailments and I've basically had a sore throat since Thanksgiving. It really put a crimp in my holiday frenzy and I must say that, ultimately, I was OK with that. In my fantasy the house is beautifully, tastefully, and whimsically decorated (and clean, of course). I would host a cozy gathering of my dearest friends complete with wassail and perhaps a cookie exchange. We would have an advent calendar and a richly appointed nativity scene replete with angels in heaven.
In reality, we did manage to get a tree which Miriam decorated on Christmas Eve. And all thanks and credit to Tom who shouldered the burden of Christmas shopping and really pulled the house together. He truly is a helpmate. Amelia nipped at my heels to make cookie dough and she and Miriam worked on (and squabbled about) the baking project. As I look back on it I realize it was a real team effort this year.
I also bet that we only used about 30% of our Christmas stuff. I treasure it all, but for now I'm happy with lights, a tree with selections from our ornament collection, and the stuffed fabric nativity scene my sister made for me some years ago.
One source of joy this year is the fact that the girls seem to value the experience of Christmas as much as, if not more than, the presents. They enjoy the preparation. They had fun planning gifts for each other and the parents. They love the music and TV shows. Amelia worked really hard on a scrapbook she made for her best friend. Some of our worst moments actually came while we were shopping. They both are still teenagers, you know.
Yes, Advent was rough, and there were quite a few moments when I felt run-down and like I was going through the motions. But the motions were not a bad thing. And I am at complete peace at this moment (ouch, now officially the day AFTER Christmas) because even though it wasn't Home and Gardens, it was beautiful. Our Christmas dinner was a little funky (who pairs yorkshire pudding with ham?), I never did see my friends, but my little family was happy. What more could I want?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tick...Tick...Tick
My baby is thirteen. Very thirteen.
My eldest didn't prepare me for this. My headstrong toddler morphed into a fairly mellow teen. My funny, sunny toddler now stands taller than me, favors lots of dark eyeliner, and colors her hair. I said no to piercing her lip, and she cannot get a tattoo until she is financially independent.
She's a teen, and this is what teens do, isn't it? Why do I worry so?
I have no problem with her playing with her appearance. In fact, I've liked her hair colors and must admit that the eyeliner actually does accentuate her striking blue/green eyes. I'm fine with her attraction to the alternative, "punk light" bands she's digging these days.
I don't like the darkness. She's still funny, but now cloudy with only peeks of sunshine. I honestly can't tell if she's happy or not sometimes. Even more troubling is the fact that she's shut me out. I'm OK (for now) with her not friending me on Facebook. She also Twitters and texts and has always had liberal use of the laptop. All I get is monosyllabic answers and the dreaded deadpan stare. Is everything all right in her world? I don't know, and I don't want to be the last one to know.
She wants to grow up so fast, and it's so useless to tell her to slow down. I had to think hard about why this was bothering me so much. I have to have a certain amount of faith in her values and judgments. I realized, however, that while I trust her I don't trust other people. I don't want guys hitting on her. I don't want people encouraging stupid behaviour. She's smart, but a tad impulsive. And, for heaven's sake, SHE'S ONLY THIRTEEN!!
I feel vaguely helpless. Dealing with a teen is a lot like playing Minesweeper or defusing a bomb. Click the wrong square, pull the wrong wire, and it all blows up. It's a delicate balance. I try to give her reasonable space so she doesn't push away further. I try to keep the communication door open, but I wind-up sounding like the stereotypical dweeby parent and it triggers the blank stare.
I love her independence, but I miss my daughter.
(How can I write about her like this? Because she doesn't follow anything I do.)
My eldest didn't prepare me for this. My headstrong toddler morphed into a fairly mellow teen. My funny, sunny toddler now stands taller than me, favors lots of dark eyeliner, and colors her hair. I said no to piercing her lip, and she cannot get a tattoo until she is financially independent.
She's a teen, and this is what teens do, isn't it? Why do I worry so?
I have no problem with her playing with her appearance. In fact, I've liked her hair colors and must admit that the eyeliner actually does accentuate her striking blue/green eyes. I'm fine with her attraction to the alternative, "punk light" bands she's digging these days.
I don't like the darkness. She's still funny, but now cloudy with only peeks of sunshine. I honestly can't tell if she's happy or not sometimes. Even more troubling is the fact that she's shut me out. I'm OK (for now) with her not friending me on Facebook. She also Twitters and texts and has always had liberal use of the laptop. All I get is monosyllabic answers and the dreaded deadpan stare. Is everything all right in her world? I don't know, and I don't want to be the last one to know.
She wants to grow up so fast, and it's so useless to tell her to slow down. I had to think hard about why this was bothering me so much. I have to have a certain amount of faith in her values and judgments. I realized, however, that while I trust her I don't trust other people. I don't want guys hitting on her. I don't want people encouraging stupid behaviour. She's smart, but a tad impulsive. And, for heaven's sake, SHE'S ONLY THIRTEEN!!
I feel vaguely helpless. Dealing with a teen is a lot like playing Minesweeper or defusing a bomb. Click the wrong square, pull the wrong wire, and it all blows up. It's a delicate balance. I try to give her reasonable space so she doesn't push away further. I try to keep the communication door open, but I wind-up sounding like the stereotypical dweeby parent and it triggers the blank stare.
I love her independence, but I miss my daughter.
(How can I write about her like this? Because she doesn't follow anything I do.)
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Gift of Time -- Priceless
This past week has taught me that I am in possession of one of the world's most precious resources: unstructured time.
This is how I became caretaker of Brandon. I was between jobs, Carla (his mom)was looking for someone, AND HE'S SO DARN CUTE. I consider myself sort of a "boutique" caregiver, generally taking on one kid at a time who become my own during the day. Maybe this is my penance for not staying home with MY kids while they were babies.
This will be tested in a couple of weeks when I will be adding Max to the mix, who is only 7 months younger than Brandon. It's mind-blowing to see what a difference that makes at this stage.
A couple of days ago another neighbor called wondering if I could hang-out with her 4 year-old for about an hour so she could go to a yoga class. I was ready to do it, but the class wound-up being canceled. So I took Brandon to the library, where the very-expectant librarian looked at me longly and said "You babysit? You know, I'm going to need someone one day a week when I'm ready to go back to work..." AAAH, I'm not looking for these jobs. They keep looking for me!!
So I think it may have even been later that same day that the local elementary school called me as an emergency contact for my across the street neighbor whom they'd been unable to reach. Her son had complained of not feeling well after snack, and there was some concern about a food allergy. I drove around the city parks looking for my neighbor, then picked her son up at school and brought him home. (All was well, he wasn't having an allergic reaction and his mom had gone to the library with her other kids and was home by the time I got there.)
It got me to thinking what a rare commodity I am -- someone who was home and could run to the school. I was also the rare mom who could go on field trips and bake for special events when my kids were in elementary school. (I left the normal workaday world when my kids were in school all day. What planning!!)
You mean, women used to do this stuff all the time?
There is something to be said for having a parent-type at home, and I don't think it has to be the mom. It's not an easy job. I can see how the stereotypical 50's housewife was a secret valium abuser or alcoholic. The boredom can get mind-numbing, and I feel like getting a t-shirt that says "I have a college degree." Yet I certainly feel that I'm filling a critical void.
Perhaps after we reform health care (and recover from the whole process) we'll be ready to take-on child care reform.
This is how I became caretaker of Brandon. I was between jobs, Carla (his mom)was looking for someone, AND HE'S SO DARN CUTE. I consider myself sort of a "boutique" caregiver, generally taking on one kid at a time who become my own during the day. Maybe this is my penance for not staying home with MY kids while they were babies.
This will be tested in a couple of weeks when I will be adding Max to the mix, who is only 7 months younger than Brandon. It's mind-blowing to see what a difference that makes at this stage.
A couple of days ago another neighbor called wondering if I could hang-out with her 4 year-old for about an hour so she could go to a yoga class. I was ready to do it, but the class wound-up being canceled. So I took Brandon to the library, where the very-expectant librarian looked at me longly and said "You babysit? You know, I'm going to need someone one day a week when I'm ready to go back to work..." AAAH, I'm not looking for these jobs. They keep looking for me!!
So I think it may have even been later that same day that the local elementary school called me as an emergency contact for my across the street neighbor whom they'd been unable to reach. Her son had complained of not feeling well after snack, and there was some concern about a food allergy. I drove around the city parks looking for my neighbor, then picked her son up at school and brought him home. (All was well, he wasn't having an allergic reaction and his mom had gone to the library with her other kids and was home by the time I got there.)
It got me to thinking what a rare commodity I am -- someone who was home and could run to the school. I was also the rare mom who could go on field trips and bake for special events when my kids were in elementary school. (I left the normal workaday world when my kids were in school all day. What planning!!)
You mean, women used to do this stuff all the time?
There is something to be said for having a parent-type at home, and I don't think it has to be the mom. It's not an easy job. I can see how the stereotypical 50's housewife was a secret valium abuser or alcoholic. The boredom can get mind-numbing, and I feel like getting a t-shirt that says "I have a college degree." Yet I certainly feel that I'm filling a critical void.
Perhaps after we reform health care (and recover from the whole process) we'll be ready to take-on child care reform.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Half-Empty or Half-Full?
Contrary to much of what we hear these days, there are some real advantages to being a woman in our society. One true victory of the movement is that we are allowed to define our role.
I feel pretty confident saying that most guys in my position would say that they are unemployed. I, on the other hand, have the option of saying that I am a homemaker, and we can all agree that it's a valuable occupation (if seriously underpaid).
Right after my last job tanked, I thought I was enemployed. I felt unemployed. I was contemplating and mapping my next career move, fighting the inner fear that perhaps I'm just not cut out for the work world (another topic entirely).
There's a narcotic to being at home, though. As the days start to slide by I find that I don't miss the timeclock. I start morphing into the homemaker, which, by the way, is not something I'm particularly good at. If there were real justice in the world I would have the ambition and skills to be the money-maker and Tom could stay home. He's got mad housekeeping skills. Way better than mine.
ANYWAY -- being a homemaker is a lot like being a farmer. NOTE: I agree with the school of thought that "housewife" is a pejorative term. I am not married to my house. "Homemaker" describes the entirety of the role. It's holistic. But back to the point at hand...farmers also do not work by the timeclock (at least not in my romantic fantasy world), rather they work according to the rhythm of life each day and season. I'm always amazed at how much of my day is ruled by meal planning or preparation. And each season brings its demands of school or vacation or holidays...
The problem with such work, however, is that it is not neatly confined to a workday. I, like the farmer, have the luxury of deciding when I want to work, but, also like the farmer, I will get out of it what I put into it. Too much time spent sleeping, playing Freecell, doing crosswords, or blogging makes for a home that I cringe to call my own. I'm really working on this issue. And there's always work to be done. Even on vacation, weekends, and evenings. Sometimes especially then.
And, truth be told, I'm not even completely unemployed. I'm back to tending to Brandon, now 8 months old. Now I'm also following the rhythms of feedings, diapers, and naps. Still trying to find my balance with all this. But it's sort of a "nicotine patch" for paycheck withdrawal, and it fulfills my need for a purpose. Nurturing a human soul is one of the higher callings in life, or so I keep telling myself.
It's all in how you look at it.
I feel pretty confident saying that most guys in my position would say that they are unemployed. I, on the other hand, have the option of saying that I am a homemaker, and we can all agree that it's a valuable occupation (if seriously underpaid).
Right after my last job tanked, I thought I was enemployed. I felt unemployed. I was contemplating and mapping my next career move, fighting the inner fear that perhaps I'm just not cut out for the work world (another topic entirely).
There's a narcotic to being at home, though. As the days start to slide by I find that I don't miss the timeclock. I start morphing into the homemaker, which, by the way, is not something I'm particularly good at. If there were real justice in the world I would have the ambition and skills to be the money-maker and Tom could stay home. He's got mad housekeeping skills. Way better than mine.
ANYWAY -- being a homemaker is a lot like being a farmer. NOTE: I agree with the school of thought that "housewife" is a pejorative term. I am not married to my house. "Homemaker" describes the entirety of the role. It's holistic. But back to the point at hand...farmers also do not work by the timeclock (at least not in my romantic fantasy world), rather they work according to the rhythm of life each day and season. I'm always amazed at how much of my day is ruled by meal planning or preparation. And each season brings its demands of school or vacation or holidays...
The problem with such work, however, is that it is not neatly confined to a workday. I, like the farmer, have the luxury of deciding when I want to work, but, also like the farmer, I will get out of it what I put into it. Too much time spent sleeping, playing Freecell, doing crosswords, or blogging makes for a home that I cringe to call my own. I'm really working on this issue. And there's always work to be done. Even on vacation, weekends, and evenings. Sometimes especially then.
And, truth be told, I'm not even completely unemployed. I'm back to tending to Brandon, now 8 months old. Now I'm also following the rhythms of feedings, diapers, and naps. Still trying to find my balance with all this. But it's sort of a "nicotine patch" for paycheck withdrawal, and it fulfills my need for a purpose. Nurturing a human soul is one of the higher callings in life, or so I keep telling myself.
It's all in how you look at it.
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