The H Word.

I hate the term housewife. This is generally said as I lift a roast out of the oven. I did not marry my house. It's too old, it makes embarrassing noises and, frankly, it's a bit small, if you know what I mean. When I hear, "housewife", I channel Betty Draper. Not in the, my hair and makeup are perfect way, but in the, I hate everything and everyone around me way. Technically, I work from home; however, my house and I are not in a relationship. It is merely the storage unit overflowing with the products of the life we've created.

In the 50s, the role of the matriarch was to keep a clean and presentable appearance and home. To dress children well and ensure they were fed, polite and delivered to and from school. The picture of the well dressed mother, peering out the window to ensure supper was on the table before the wheels of the Thunderbird turned the corner and shifted from drive to park. 

Then, we changed. We grew and brave women started the hard work that continues today. We were freed from the prison of the 50s housewife stereotype. Except, we weren't.

Women are CEOs, politicians and soldiers. We have made great strides in the workforce. We still struggle to receive equal pay for equal work, but, there is no denying our progress.

However, inside the walls of home, the role of the stay-at-home care provider still struggles to find its new normal. This role has shifted. It is more hands-on. It is more engaged. The expectations of a full-time caregiver are robust. 100% tuned in to not only the physical requirements of the job; food in bellies, clothes on back, but also immersed in social and emotional development. And, you must not only be switched on to library outings and play groups, play dates and socially enriching opportunities, but, in the midst of this, you must be engaged. Present. Not just inside the home, but, in the real and imagined world of the child. At classes, at school, at sports events and recitals and classroom parties. Constantly. This hands-on/deep end of the parenting pool is newer; stemming from the emotional and natural parenting boom of the 70s. The rollover era of peace and love moving child rearing in a new direction. This move was and continues to be great, except for the quiet expectation that tagged along...the monkey on the back of progress. Yes, the 50s era housewife.

Ham! Mother fuckin' HAM!

In this brave new world of ultra-connected parenting, there is still the covert expectation that you go steady with your home. To promise to clean, organize, decorate, cook (equal parts delicious and nutritious) meals and make hospital corners until death do you part.  And, there is a ticking clock.  Attempts should be made to do it all before the doorknob twists. signaling not the end of the parenting work-day...because that never ends, but the traditional work day of someone else.

Few are brave enough to come right out and state this is the expectation, but, the nagging feeling of impeded progress is there. Sadly, we have not helped ourselves as we continue to feel the pressure internally to do more and more and then, even more with the same number of hours in the day. The expectation of perfection and the seamless oneness of our multiple functions. Measuring our proficiency of every part of our enormous role to determine a day's success. We could blame society, but, we continue to place this expectation on ourselves. Instead of separating our parenting from "housewifery", we combine them into one role. One overarching rainbow from child birth to clean toilets. On most days, I fail my home. I do not dust, clean blinds or mop. I do not scour floors or counters, but, I am an overextended and present parent. On the days when I put on my date-night pants and do my laundry, organize the roaming piles of paper and items needing attention, clean and plan elaborate meals, I am not as present for my children.

"We can have it all!" Well, we can. We do, but, only when we measure our success by the happiness of our children and stop measuring success by how many items are left on the to-do list.

I am an imperfect, stay-at-home parent. If you call me a housewife, I will hit you in the face with my Frittata pan.