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.
|Ham! Mother fuckin’ HAM!|
“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.