Parenting Perspective
One morning, I found myself unleashing my frustrations on an old plastic toy that had long been forgotten. I slammed it down repeatedly, as if possessed, until it shattered into fragments, causing a small cut on my finger. There lay the evidence of my fury—pieces of plastic scattered across the floor, alongside remnants of my dignity—and then I resumed my cleaning duties. It had been a while since I had experienced such a surge of maternal angst, so a breakdown felt overdue. In its wake, I experienced a mix of relief and guilt from succumbing to such a juvenile outburst.
The source of my anger stemmed from the previous evening. My husband, in search of a clean towel for his shower, had been met with a growing pile of dirty ones in the laundry hamper. The linen closet held only beach towels. Gasp!
As I sat on the couch, typing on my laptop, I was reminded of my identity. I see myself as a writer; however, the reality is that I lack a steady income and, as a result, find myself classified as a housewife who indulges in a hobby. Once a teacher and later a stay-at-home mom, now that the kids are in school, I find myself in this role of housewife.
As the primary caretaker, I feel obligated to ensure that clean towels are always available, and any failure to do so equates to not fulfilling my role. I will admit, while I am indeed a housewife, my aspirations do not include achieving housekeeping perfection. Sure, the children are in school, but I refuse to spend my days obsessing over creating ideal storage solutions or folding endless piles of towels. My aim is simply to find a balance between order and chaos, with occasional moments of brilliance and bouts of inadequacy. Because, quite frankly, I have other interests.
Writing is my passion. I engage online with readers and fellow writers, and I manage to fit in various other activities that enrich my life, especially my blog.
Returning to the root of my outburst… My husband, holding a beach towel, disrupted my writing session with questions I interpreted through my wifely lens: “How many towels do we have?” translated to “You’ve been home all day; can’t you manage to get some clean towels?” and “Why aren’t there any clean towels?” was essentially “You should be doing laundry instead of lounging on your laptop.”
Does my husband deserve a clean towel? Absolutely. But do I want to justify why there isn’t one? Not really, and I’d rather not have to respond to inquiries about my domestic shortcomings. Sure, the towel situation could be better, but would it really hurt to use a beach towel?
This led to a disagreement, and we went to bed upset. The next morning, after dropping the kids off at school, I returned home and engaged in some vigorous cleaning, fueled by anger. I was frustrated that I seemed to be the sole custodian of our household’s mess, and I felt overwhelmed by the weight of our established dynamics; despite my strong will and feminist ideals, I felt powerless without my own income.
While my husband does share responsibilities and often uses inclusive language like “ours,” I still grapple with the reality that I am the constant in my children’s lives, while he travels frequently for work. I have chosen to be at home, to be present for their activities, and while this can be practical, it can also feel demeaning to be the sole keeper of cleanliness.
So, I took out my frustrations on a plastic toy and then cleaned up the aftermath. While it was an embarrassing display rooted in first-world frustrations, it did clear my mind. I realize that fulfillment will not come from a spotless home but from my writing. Putting my thoughts to paper nourishes my spirit, and I am committed to prioritizing it. I might not be penning award-winning works about my husband’s idiosyncrasies, but I am part of an important community of mothers, and that matters deeply to me.
If only my writing could lead to greater financial success… perhaps I’ll create a masterpiece that allows me to renegotiate household duties with my husband. That sounds appealing.
But first, back to the task at hand: I have towels to fold.
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In summary, while I may wear the title of housewife, I am much more than that. My identity encompasses my passion for writing and my role within a supportive community of mothers. The daily challenges of maintaining a household are real, but they don’t define my worth or my aspirations.
Keyphrase: Housewife identity
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