I was born in 1971, and I grew up in an era where women fought for equal rights and a place in the workforce. I think many people my age take working women for granted. (And I'm going to use the term "working women" to refer to those women working jobs outside the home. I thoroughly support hardworking stay-at-home moms and am not trying to debate the work vs. home issue. So let's let it be.) Women want to be considered on an equal level with men in school, in the workplace, in society. Even though there are still gaps in pay, and in some people's attitudes, women have proven that they, indeed, can be highly successful CEOs of multimillion dollar corporations or politicians or doctors, lawyers, educators, and so on.
Hoo. Ray.
As a full-time working mother, I appreciate the fight women before me endured to make it possible for me to be a creative professional, earning as much or more than men in my field. I, however, still feel an obligation to serve as primary caregiver to our child, cook and clean, encourage social gatherings, engage in several hobbies, try to exercise for 30-45 minutes four times a week, and—in there somewhere—maintain a strong marital relationship with my husband.
I know I'm no math whiz, but unless someone suddenly added an eighth day to the week or tacked on a few extra hours to each day, it doesn't add up. I come up with a time deficit that has me teetering on the edge of a chasm just slightly less mammoth than the GRAND CANYON. At least it feels that way to me.
My husband is wonderful. He takes care of our baby. He pitches in with grocery shopping and cleaning. He pays bills and keeps the cars running and mows the lawn. However, I can't seem to shake this nagging idea, this holdover Mrs. Cleaver moment, this notion that I'm failing.
I'm failing because...I can't do it all. And certainly I can't do it all perfectly.
We've seen what happens when good girls go bad. When the drive for perfection, for having it all, boots your butt right into the slammer. Yes. Martha Stewart.
I don't want to be Martha. I actually hate Martha. A lot of people out there hate Martha, and I think it's for the same reason. She wants the world to believe that (in addition to running her beaucoup-bucks company, dressing immaculately, and using only the finest parchment paper atop her cookie pans) she raises her own sheep, shears them, spins the wool to make a decorative wall hanging which greets her houseguests who arrive at the last-minute spring soiree she organized.
Bitch.
I just called a local housecleaning company, and Christopher's coming by to give me an estimate on their service costs at 3. I'm about to pop a frozen dinner in the oven. Later, I'll forego the handmade-paper wrapping and earthtoned raffia bow, instead putting my husband's anniversary presents in a gift bag with a handful of recycled tissue paper.
So my shirts aren't arranged according to color. So my spice rack isn't alphabetized. So there's cat hair on, well, on everything. So I could write the preamble to the constitution in the dust atop our refrigerator.
So what. My kid needs me to read "But Not The Hippopotamus" for the 12th time. My husband needs me to rub an achy shoulder. I need to allow myself a long, hot soak in a bubbly bath. If only the tub were clean.
Hoo. Ray.
As a full-time working mother, I appreciate the fight women before me endured to make it possible for me to be a creative professional, earning as much or more than men in my field. I, however, still feel an obligation to serve as primary caregiver to our child, cook and clean, encourage social gatherings, engage in several hobbies, try to exercise for 30-45 minutes four times a week, and—in there somewhere—maintain a strong marital relationship with my husband.
I know I'm no math whiz, but unless someone suddenly added an eighth day to the week or tacked on a few extra hours to each day, it doesn't add up. I come up with a time deficit that has me teetering on the edge of a chasm just slightly less mammoth than the GRAND CANYON. At least it feels that way to me.
My husband is wonderful. He takes care of our baby. He pitches in with grocery shopping and cleaning. He pays bills and keeps the cars running and mows the lawn. However, I can't seem to shake this nagging idea, this holdover Mrs. Cleaver moment, this notion that I'm failing.
I'm failing because...I can't do it all. And certainly I can't do it all perfectly.
We've seen what happens when good girls go bad. When the drive for perfection, for having it all, boots your butt right into the slammer. Yes. Martha Stewart.
I don't want to be Martha. I actually hate Martha. A lot of people out there hate Martha, and I think it's for the same reason. She wants the world to believe that (in addition to running her beaucoup-bucks company, dressing immaculately, and using only the finest parchment paper atop her cookie pans) she raises her own sheep, shears them, spins the wool to make a decorative wall hanging which greets her houseguests who arrive at the last-minute spring soiree she organized.
Bitch.
I just called a local housecleaning company, and Christopher's coming by to give me an estimate on their service costs at 3. I'm about to pop a frozen dinner in the oven. Later, I'll forego the handmade-paper wrapping and earthtoned raffia bow, instead putting my husband's anniversary presents in a gift bag with a handful of recycled tissue paper.
So my shirts aren't arranged according to color. So my spice rack isn't alphabetized. So there's cat hair on, well, on everything. So I could write the preamble to the constitution in the dust atop our refrigerator.
So what. My kid needs me to read "But Not The Hippopotamus" for the 12th time. My husband needs me to rub an achy shoulder. I need to allow myself a long, hot soak in a bubbly bath. If only the tub were clean.
Comments
Love ya Amy. Keep it up.
Jenny