Not a Housewife

I had an epiphany tonight: I'm not a housewife. I never married a house. I never even dated a house. And I sure as hell never made one any promises.

Women my age were born right as a woman's role within the family was changing. And many of us, although more modern in our thinking than the last generation, are still tied mentally to the older expectations.

I have always felt like a bad housewife. I don't enjoy cleaning or cooking - and seldom make either a priority. Even when I really try I just can't seem to get everything done.

Not succeeding at something, that others seem to take in stride, has always bothered me. I don't like failing at anything.

Tonight, I realized I haven't failed. I don't stay home to clean my house or prepare meals. I stay home to raise my children; to make sure their first years are spent with family. To give them the best start possible on developing into people with the values Steve and I (and not some babysitter) think are important. To give them a sense of security and a solid foundation from which they can grow into healthy and strong individuals.

I'm a stay-at-home mom.

I take care of their basic needs, introduce them to new places and things, encourage them to spread their wings, support their interests, offer guidance and discipline when needed, teach them how to handle the highs and lows, show them how to make sacrifices and love one another, and I'm always there when they need me.

(And yeah, that does involve some cooking, laundry, and house work . . . but not as much as you would think.)

And you know what? I'm good at it.

The Burning Question

We've had an ongoing issue with Will's diet. He does not get enough fruit, vegetables, or grains and so suffers from reoccurring stomach aches. Two weeks ago, Will almost cried with cramps located in his lower back. I expected it was his kidneys and asked if he'd experienced any burning when peeing.

"Sometimes," Will responds. "But I just dip my penis in water and it feels better."

My first fear was that the willy-dipping had taken place in the sink, where I often brush my teeth. But, I realized he was to short to reach that high - and I'd removed the steps in the bathroom over a year ago.

Then I got all involved in making Will feel better and the question of where exactly he dipped his penis was forgotten. I bought cranberry juice and forced water down him. In a few days things were back to normal.

Tonight, Will comes out of the bathroom and tells me it burned again when he went pee.

As I had shared my moment of fear with Steve weeks earlier, and we'd laughed about it, I looked at my spouse and smiled. "Will dips his penis in water so it feels better," I reminded Steve. Then I asked Will, "Do you need me to get you a wet rag to wash off?"

"No," he tells me calmly, "I filled a glass and dipped my penis in it. It feels better now."

The only glasses in the bathroom are the small paper ones we use when we brush our teeth - the same ones that are often spread all over the bathroom cabinet and I have to re-stack. "Do you throw the cups away after you put your penis in them?" I ask with trepidation.

"Sometimes."

The Note

I've been thinking about all the adjustments Steve has made over the last year as we prepared for a new baby, and then as the father of a new born.

In addition to having Linden in the house, Steve has lost most of his wife's time, and gained a lot more responsibility towards Will.

I wanted to let him know I was aware of how life had changed and that I appreciated the acceptance on his part towards those changes. As having a serious talk with Steve is a hit-and-miss, with his humor jumping out at the strangest moments, I decided to leave him a note.

I explained that I was sorry he had to make his own breakfast and pack his own lunches. Sorry the house wasn't clean and the laundry hardly ever done. That meals were often abbreviated affairs or burnt offerings. That I had no time to spend with him. I even expressed sorrow that I had gained weight, seldom put on nice clothes, and never had time to fix my hair or put on make up. But I was not sorry that I had him, Will, or Linden in my life . . . and I never would be.

When I woke up this morning, I saw that Steve had written "Me too" next to the end of each paragraph. It didn't bother me at first, but then I noticed he'd even written it next to the paragraph about me being sorry I had gained weight and never wore makeup.

I was all, "What the hell did he mean by that?"

How dare he say anything about me putting on weight! (And I was off!) I mentally tallied a list of imagined insults. Eventually, the insult train had a layover and reason boarded. Then I was mad at myself.

Steve hadn't gone out of his way to make me feel bad. I was the one that put all those statements on paper and made them real. All of a sudden, I felt like the woman asking her husband if her pants made her ass look big. Don't ask if you don't want the truth.

When Steve and I were sitting around the living room this evening, after the boys went to bed, I brought up the note and my see saw of emotions regarding his response.

The man is either really good at saving his hide, or honestly didn't mean the "Me too" the way I'd taken it.

"I meant that I too had gained weight and never had time to dress up for you," he said.

Isn't he sweet?

Be Were Bear

I'm a huge fan of paranormal stories. I'm not really into ghosts, future or past travel, or aliens. Vampires? Sometimes. But what I really enjoy reading is a book with any type of 'were' in it.

Last year, Steve had a good laugh when I read about my first werebear. I've read about so many at this point, I can hardly recall what was so funny about it in the first place. Familiarity may, or may not breed contempt, but it certainly builds credence. I've read stories about werewolves, werecougars, werelions, werehyenas, werebears, and once, even about a wearbunny - but that was a spoof.

Steve and I were talking about the problems I've been having with mercurial mood and hormonal swings. I hate the loss of control and my own reactions during these unexpected outbreaks. I am comforted by the fact that I understand what causes them and eventually they will go away. I am also blessed with a husband that understands and knows how to correctly handle the situations when they arrive - duck and run for cover!

This man, who has never caught a hint in his life, doesn't have a clue about most relationship nuances, and can be plain blind and deaf to situational strife, has shown a startling ability to identify one of my mood swings from the onset -- often before I am even aware I'm headed into the danger zone. All he has to do is look at me.

That's when it dawned on me, my 'were' must be coming out.

This photo was taken at the onslaught of an 'episode'.

As soon as we started joking about my 'were' abilities, I could clearly see it. I struggle constantly to present a calm and competent persona to the world, to my family. But lately, I seem to have no off switch. Any emotion or reaction (anger, resentment, concern, etc.) comes out of nowhere and rips through my skin until I feel like a belligerent bear.

Thankfully, the episodes don't last long, although they do commonly include a bit of mauling of the unwary - just until the bodies stop fighting and remain still. After which, I am left feeling remorseful and pained by my actions.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to forewarn you. Should you be in my company (let's say any time in the next five years), and notice Steve tripping over furniture as he runs away for no apparent reason . . . I suggest you race after him. Because you know what they say, "You don't have to out race the bear, just the person in front of you."