Confessions of an Angry Housewife
Before I begin, let me just say that I know, in my heart and in my head, how lucky I am. I have a beautiful, healthy, amazing son, and a wonderful husband who loves me. I have a roof over my head that brings me shelter, comfort and provides a place for my family to grow and bond. I have great friends, and the best family a person could ask for. I get it. I know this, and I am eternally grateful.
But somedays, sometimes, a girl just gets sick and tired of some things. Sometimes a girl takes a look at her life, at the way she spends her time, at the first things to enter her mind each morning (Tuesday. Floor Day. Must make sure I move all the chairs off the hardwoods. Pack Munchkin's snack for preschool. Return faulty baby gate to store.) before her feet even hit the floor, and sometimes that girl just can't.take.another.second.
When I dreamed of staying at home with my children, I didn't dream of feeling like the maid. I didn't dream of sweating by 9 am every morning, attempting to get myself, my little person, and all of our collective crap out the door. I didn't dream of feeling as if my home OWNED me, owned my time, owned the majority of my thought life. I didn't dream of the resentment I'd feel at going to the bathroom while keeping my wriggly, tantrum throwing son away from the toilet brush. I certainly didn't dream of the guilt that would flood through me every single time I spoke too sharply, or felt relief when dropping the Munckin off at preschool. (Two and a half hours all to myself!!! Oh. Hell. It's Floor Day. #$($($#&!!!)
I had no idea what I was asking for when I decided to stay at home. And those of you out there reading this, who've never stayed home with your children, and are scoffing at my resentments- this blog entry is not for you. I don't know what your life is like, and you don't know mine. It's my blog and I'll write what I want to. :)) I can't count how many times I've wondered, as I'm scrubbing the floor, folding another load of laundry, picking up yet.another.pea. off the floor or getting kicked in the boobs AGAIN while trying to change the poopy diaper of a screaming toddler, WHAT IS THE POINT??????
Did I work all my life- for THIS? My parents raised both my sister and I to believe that college was neither- 1)optional nor 2) a place for us to solely search out our "MRS. degree." Of course, family and having kids has always been a goal of mine, a dream of mine. I couldn't wait to be able to stay home with my kids, and avoid the unbelievable stress of having to work outside the home and raise kids and take care of a home. Until that happened, I was going to teach. And teach I did. I chose teaching bc I was good at it, and bc I couldn't imagine getting up each morning and going to a job that I didn't feel had worth or value. Making money was (obviously) not my first priority. I wanted to do something important. Something that made the world a better place.
But now, my second year away from the classroom, I just don't know what my purpose is any more. I know the time I spend with the Wiz- reading, playing, teaching, talking, singing, disciplining, laughing, and yes, changing diapers/bathing/feeding/nurturing- all of those things have purpose and value. I realize that being a mother (whether it's stay at home or not) is a MOSTLY thankless job. (Hello, I was a teacher for 6 years. That's probably one of the top 5 other most thankless jobs out there, right behind mother and trash collector. I'm used to it.) But with teaching I felt that just about everything I did had a purpose. Even the small, annoying, tedious things had value, contributed to the bigger picture of educating these kids. Standing in front of a copy machine, enduring finger cramps from cutting out countless bears/bunnies/gingerbread men out of construction paper, and yes even the most POINTLESS of " district staff development" meetings. I always seemed to endure those much more willingly than I am able to endure the same level of tedium as a homemaker.
You know that old adage about the needle and the haystack? I feel as if the needle in my haystack is my Purpose, or my Value. The haystack- each tiny, itchy piece of hay- are the tedious, humbling, boring tasks that I am stuck with. They are weighing down on my purpose, suffocating it.
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