In case you were wondering (or even cared!)

I've been on Christmas break.  I'll be back when I have fewer guests and a functioning computer in the house for more than 30 minutes at a time.  Enjoy your Christmas season!

Of Mary and the Stable

I've been thinking a lot of Mary lately.  I'm sure the snow-clad wreaths and the shimmer of lights from neighboring houses has been somewhat influential.  Regardless, I keep wondering about that night in the stable-forget that animals that were or weren't there breathing on the baby and giving him their wool for clothes, forget the sweet-smelling hay, forget all the sentimental things that make us sigh and forget that a woman just gave birth, and possibly alone.

Anyone who's been through labor, or seen labor, has to know it's not pretty.  Not in the least. I'm certain Mary's was no different.  Though her child was not conceived in the traditional way, it came into this world as any other (or so I think).

What really gets me, though, is that she was miles from home- miles from the women who would have attended her at the birth, who would have supported and encouraged her.

I can't help but think that some woman in the crowded town heard and rushed to her side.  Or that Joseph went to find some help.  I can't bear to think of her having to do that all alone.

Nor can I imagine being visited by a bunch of strange men with their cute little lambs shortly after giving birth.  I suppose it's a good thing God asked Mary do the Mother-of-God job.  I would have botched it.

Needs vs. Wants

Sometimes I have a hard time figuring out the difference between needs and wants.  Some examples:

Son crying in the middle of the night: Does he need me, or want me?
Shopping for clothes: Does he need more pajamas, or do I just want to do laundry less often?
Shopping for groceries: Do I need more flour, or do I just want to bake more cookies?
Watching Cars:  Do I need peace and quiet, or do I just want a moment to myself?

So last week, while at the mall buying a pair of shoes to replace the one the dog chewed (a definite need), I glanced at the boots on the rack.  I thought to myself  "Gee, I bet boots would be something I would need, seeing as we're living in a state that tends to get a lot of snow."  Then I glanced at the prices.  "Nah, it's probably just a want.  I can deal with regular old flats.  I've walked through lots of snow before and dealt with wet feet just fine."

And then it snowed. 

A week later, it snowed again. 

Two days later, it snowed again.

And now the wind's blowing, and the drifts are upwards of 3-4 feet.

I think the boots were a need.

 

Happy hour, anyone?

God, in his infinite mercy, created young children with a need for naps.  I heartily believe it is so we can continue to like our children, especially the ones who have spent their mornings screaming at us.  Therefore, when one of these screaming children refuses to take a nap, or only sleeps for 10 minutes, it's understandable that his mother wishes to run out the front door screaming. Right?

Trust me, the feeling's mutual.

Let this be a sign unto you

I'm certain it's a sign that, while doing a general decluttering of the kitchen, my heart rate picked up and my breaths came a little more often.  But a sign of what, I wonder.  That I need to start running again, or that my son can terrorize my kitchen faster than I could lose on Minute to Win It?  Either way, I rewarded my hard work with a cookie.

The cook, the baker, the candlestick-maker

Leah graciously referred me to another Chesterton quote from his book, What's Wrong With the World, which I found worthwhile:

"Women were not kept in the home in order to keep them narrow;  on the contrary, they were kept at home in order to keep them broad . . . A woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute.  I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task;  I will never pity her for its smallness."

Traditionally, the woman's task in the home was broad.  She was expected to have a variety of skills necessary for the proper running and upkeep of a home.  She could mend a garment, and sew a new one; strip old shirts and piece a blanket's top, then quilt that top for the bed.  She knew how to read a recipe and cook a meal.  She could nurse an infant, and tend the garden.  She kept the laundry caught up, and knew which combination of household goods would be best to get the stains out of her husband's clothing.  She baked bread, and put up cans of homegrown corn for the winter.  She enlisted her children to help make butter and candles and soap, and still invited friends over for dinner. I could continue, but you get the point.

The interesting part of this, however, is that each of these tasks once expected of all women, have now become hobbies, and women only do those of interest.

We now divide ourselves according to our likes and carefully honed skills- we are quilters, or stitchers; knitters, or bakers; soap makers, canners, gardeners, day care providers.  Anything we dislike doing that has to be done, we outsource.  We order in, or eat out.  We hire a nanny and a maid.  We drop off laundry at the cleaners, and pick up cans of peaches from the grocery store. 

Or, if we can't outsource, we convince ourselves that our husbands should be helping out more, and we push our duties off on them..  After all, with both parties working a full-time job, it's unfair that the woman would have to do all housework and child-rearing by herself.  So we assign our husbands jobs, and keep track of their completion on our mental chore charts.

When neither of these options work-they are too expensive, or jobs aren't done to our level of expectation, we'll pull on the rubber gloves and do them ourselves, but with a scowl.

Now certainly, not every woman in the past enjoyed every part of her jobs.  Every mother rejoices when a child is potty-trained, for that marks the end of rinsing that child's dirty diapers day after day.  And certainly, not every woman was equally skilled at every task.  If that were the case, county fair judges would have a difficult time placing blue ribbons on the winning quilts and pies.  Rather, women realized that they had work to do-whether they were experts or not, and whether they enjoyed it or not.  Families had a square meal on the table, even if they had to douse it with ketchup.  Children had clothes, even if they were all made from the same simple pattern.  They knew their duties, and they had the range of skills they needed to make sure their house was in order.  And now, in our modern age women have few of the same skills our mother and grandmothers were taught.  And we are the ones claiming to be "advanced," and "progressive."  Seems a contradiction to me.

It's worth sharing....

Anonymous said...

"It is highly typical of the rabid plagiarism which now passes everywhere for emancipation, that a little while ago it was common for an "advanced" woman to claim the right to wear trousers; a right about as grotesque as the right to wear a false nose. Whether female liberty is much advanced by the act of wearing a skirt on each leg I do not know; perhaps Turkish women might offer some information on the point. But if the western woman walks about (as it were) trailing the curtains of the harem with her, it is quite certain that the woven mansion is meant for a perambulating palace, not for a perambulating prison. It is quite certain that the skirt means female dignity, not female submission; it can be proved by the simplest of all tests. No ruler would deliberately dress up in the recognized fetters of a slave; no judge would appear covered with broad arrows. But when men wish to be safely impressive, as judges, priests or kings, they do wear skirts, the long trailing robes of female dignity. The whole world is under petticoat government; for even men wear petticoats when they wish to govern." -G.K. Chesterton "What's Wrong with the World"

Winning isn't everything

Seems no matter how I go about my day, I can't win any of the wars in this life. I checkout a book from the library I'm sure my son will like, only to hide it under the couch after the thirteenth consecutive read.  I get him to sleep for three hours in the afternoon, but then lose two hours fighting with him to go to sleep that night.  I purchase a mop to make floor cleaning easier on my back and knees, and fail to buy one that is self-wringing. I set out to wash the dishes, only to slice open my thumb with a knife and spend the next twenty minutes applying pressure to stop the bleeding.

Rooms I clean are immediately cluttered.  Floors I scrub are instantly sullied.  Clothes, blankets, towels, and diapers I wash, fold, and put away are promptly soiled.  Newton's third law of motion seems to apply to the forces of helpfulness and destruction as well.  "No rest for the weary," my grandmother would say.

I suppose if winning these battles of life was my only aim, I would give up.  I'd get a job, send my kid to the sitter, and hire a maid.  Then I could cling to the illusions of victory- a pay check, a socialized child, a clean house. But even these offer nothing but weariness.  I'm not working to win any earthly prize.  Rather, I'm doing the tasks God has given me to do while I'm here.  Frustrating as it may be, I rejoice in my toiling and take my defeat in stride.  For there is nothing better than to be joyful and take pleasure in all my toil, knowing that my reward is in heaven, where juice does not stain, and syrup does not stick.

It's a sing-a-long!

To the tune of  "I've Been Working on the Railroad."

I've been working on the laundry,

all the live long day.

I've been working on the laundry,

and it piles up more I'd say.

Even though I throw a load in,

two, then three, now four!

Still the basket's overflowing,

flowing out the door.

Laundry won't you go,

laundry won't you go,

laundry won't you go away-ay-ay!

Laundry won't you go,

laundry won't you go,

laundry won't you go away!

Someone wiped cookie on my sweater,

Someone dripped sauce on his shir-ir-ir-irt.

Someone just messed his diaper.

And dragged his blanket through the dirt.

I'm singing...

Shout! Shout! Get the stains out!

Cheer! Cheer! It's a mess, I fear!

Gain! Gain! Make them soft again!

We'll be working through next year!

I feel your pain

And to illustrate the point

An interesting visual interpretation of my concern with women in pants, with the added illustration of my point that dresses make one appear feminine.

In defense of differences

I realize that most of my case for women to wear dresses stems from a couple underlying premises, mainly that men and women are different, and that it is good for men and women to be different.  Any good logic student could point out that I would have to defend these premises in order for any conclusion based upon them to be sound.  So first things first, men and woman are different.

Surprisingly, I actually have to defend this. Our society seems to be rather intent on reducing gender differences, so that mankind is made up of equally able and qualified individuals, so that all tasks can be mastered by both genders.  Magazines instruct women on how to get their men to do their traditional jobs- "Make your expectations clear, relenquish control, don't be a martyr!"  And when all else fails, hire help. Women cry out that they are fully capable of doing any task traditionally assigned to men, calling those who object neanderthals.*  A small underground movement is encouraging men to breastfeed. But the facts remain clear- at this point in history, men and women are different, as evidenced by our physicality.  Men still can't give birth.  And even though surgery can do wonders to outward appearances, our DNA will bear witness to our differences.  I'm sure someone somewhere is try to work those kinks out, but for now, the premise stands.  Men and women are different.

Now for the harder part: it's good that men and women are different.  I've been pondering this for awhile, and I can't find an obvious reason outside of Scripture and its account and defense of creation why we should encourage such differences.  On the surface, equality sounds like a good idea.  Men and women would have equal access to all jobs, because there are qualified men and women to do all jobs. It would be wonderful if I wasn't solely in charge in birthing and feeding the babies, and I would gladly turn over the laundry duties to my husband.  I appreciated having a life outside of the home, and enjoyed cashing a paycheck.  But as my husband pointed out, this is a rather Gnostic view of life-that one's self is only housed in the body, and therefore cannot be influenced by it.  Essentially, that my gender shouldn't influence the role I play in my family. The self can be breadwinner or homemaker, regardless of the body's gender.  While this sounds fine in theory, I read through Brave New World and shudder at the thought of a society ruled by gnosticism.

It is better to understand that we are whole, unified beings, and our "self" cannot be separated from the body.  Our bodies influence our selves, and our selves are reflected in the ways we present our bodies to the world.  Every piercing, tattoo, hairstyle, accessory, blouse, and shoe make a statement about who we are.  Dresses and skirts make the statement that the woman is different from man, a delicate flower to be treasured and protected.  Pants make the statement that woman is no different from man.  She can open the door herself, even while pushing a stroller and making a conference call.  No one rushes to her assistance because she doesn't want it.  She isn't treasured; she isn't protected. She is pardoned, and forgotten.


*I must say, however, that I am gladdened to hear that a mother who knew her child would have Down syndrome chose not to terminate her pregnancy. Seems a rarity these days.

It's worth considering...

Indeed, what could he find to coordinate for the holiday photos?

The Triangle, Revisited

Due to a recent inquiry regarding the warmth of skirts in winter months, I thought I would post some more of my own apprehensions with wearing skirts.

My house was 60 degrees this morning, due a gas main break late yesterday afternoon, which put our heater out of commission.  Not terribly cold, but cold enough.  Cold enough for me to pull on jeans, not the cute skirt.  Not to say that it's impossible to stay warm in a skirt.  Cold-weather options would include ankle-length skirts, though I'm not a huge fan.  Without a slit, they can indeed be as warm as a pair of pants if made from thick material. 

Tights offer some amount of warmth, but not enough to keep one warm during a snow storm.  And, the short-skirt/tight ensemble poses a unique problem to someone would might have trudge through snow in -40 degree weather on a regular basis (which I may have to do later this winter).  I just don't think snowboots look great with a skirt, and snowpants would be difficult to pull off without sufficient privacy. I personally opt for tights on Sundays, mostly because I can't stand to wear non-sandal shoes without some kind of sock.  (I refuse to throw out the legging option, because I was pretty sure they were ugly in the 80s.)

I've done enough research to realize that not only has outer wear come a long way, but so has underwear.  I suppose another option would be the lovely long-legged bloomers or full-length, panted slips worn in the 1920s.  I suppose the closest thing we would have today is the secretive Moromon temple garments, though you have prove you're a member to actually purchase them online. If you're into the ankle-length skirts, my drama days are proof that petticoats and bloomers offer quite a bit of warmth to the wearer, but few styles today are petticoat-friendly.

I suppose the answer to the question is this: if you wish to stay warm while keeping with modern skirt styles, there is no adequate way to keep warm, so crack up the heater.  Or wear pants.

Herky Jerky Turkey Lurkey

There's something to be said for the inane, humdrum tasks of housewifery when done in solitude.  Think sweeping, washing dishes, or in tonight's case, de-boning a turkey (Betty Crocker herself claims "Turkey  isn't just for Thanksgiving.  It's an any-meal, any-day, any-time-of-the-year kind of bird!"  And for 88 cents a pound, I'll take her up on the offer!).  Boring and annoying as these tasks may be, when done in solitude, they offer the woman a chance to ruminate.  A chance she doesn't get much any other time of the day, as she's constantly plagued by the desire (or demand) to meet the needs of those around her.  Mindless tasks give her the opportunity to fulfill both the needs of others--we all need clean floors and dishes, and someone's got to pick those little savory pieces of meat off the bones--and her need for peace.  Perhaps this opinion stems from my own introversion, but I do believe that everyone at sometime needs a chance to chew the cud.  So women, put the children to bed, let your husband watch the game, and get to picking.  After all, those morsels of meat are highly versatile and nutritious.

My, my, won't you be tasty in a sandwich!

I know I'm fakin' it

In pondering the question of motherhood loneliness, I have come to realize two things.

1.)  If I want to find other mothers with young children, I have to go to them.  They won't come to me.  Many stay-at-home-mothers are busy running their toddlers to activities such as Kindermusic, swim lessons, story hour, and tumble camp.  They have carefully arranged schedules, and plan play-dates with like-minded mothers. I do not.  I do pack the bags and head for the library each week for story time, and check out a week's supply of new books to entertain the kiddo, but my life doesn't revolve around him.  Not entirely, anyway.  Most women today stay home to take care of their kids.  I stay home to take care of my home--the bathrooms, the laundry, the dishes, the floors, the dinners, the husband, and the child.  I feel just as much obligation to scrub my toilet and wash the windows as I do the change the diapers and put my son down for a nap.  Therefore, I need to spend the majority of my time at my home.

2.)  Friendships will be difficult for me, because I'm becoming increasingly weird.  On top of my uber-conservative Lutheran values, I've been influenced by the Wendell Berry school of thought.  I dream of raising chickens and pigs, and canning the vegetables I've grown in our garden.  I intend to homeschool my children, and am skeptical of current trends in higher-education and women wearing pants.  I've planned to teach my daughters the womanly art of housekeeping, sewing, and cooking, and my sons to be wood-chopping, door-holding gentlemen. Add to that my opposition to feminism and birth control, and you've got yourself a certified weirdo.  Well, at least a certified weirdo in the works.

But for right now, and probably for the next couple years, I can fake it.  We have no chickens, pigs, or garden.  My child is too young to swing an ax or go to school, and I only have one.  I attend story hour because I have time to do that and the dishes.  The inner weirdo is covered up by what appears to be your run-of-the-mill stay-at-home-mom, gallivanting off to toddler events, chit-chatting with other moms, and desperately wishing for a play date.  But soon enough that weirdo will come shining through- either in words or actions or number of children, and I won't be able to contain her.  Perhaps by then, she'll really be stuck at home dictating sentences and boiling jars for homemade jam so that she has no time to ponder her loneliness.

The Epitome of Oppression

The May issue of Parenting: Early Years  included a rather ironic article boasting a plethora of "guilt-free indulgences."  Some were fine, including "Make an evening phone date with a long-distance friend."  But most of them included spending money on something pretty, or getting someone else to take care the children while you indulged in day spas, exercise, or the recorded shows you've missed.  A couple advised getting someone else do your husband's work for you- either hiring a handyman for the day, or having a "celeb hottie" give you a phone call.  One particularly twisted bit of guilt-ridden pleasure suggested using a child's gift card to buy yourself something fun. (Oh let me count the commandments we've broken thus far!)

By far, my favorite, was this:  "Delegate one chore permanently and irrevocably to Dad, like signing up the kids for sports teams, or emptying the lint trap in the dryer.  Know that you will never, ever do it again (and let him know it, too.)"

Perhaps I don't do enough laundry, but I never thought emptying the lint trap was so difficult or oppressive that I ought to delegate it to my husband.  I fear it would cause more confusion and delay than anything.  I picture myself sitting on the couch with baskets of wet clothes strewn about the house when he walks in the door from work.  "Honey," I would ask, "would you please go empty the dryer vent so I finally get these clothes dry?"  Or maybe the idea is that by delegating the lint trap, I've also delegated the drying of the clothes.  "Honey, while you're down there cleaning out the trap, why don't you just start the clothes in the dryer? And how about throwing those towels in the wash as well? Use a hot cycle, please!"

No, no, no.  I fear the best solution to the dilemma is to just do it myself, with the rest of the laundry.  Who better to clean the clothes and prevent house-fires than the person who is here all day, every day, and is fully capable of running her finger across the little screen to remove the loathsome lint?

Despotic lint trap, you shall be defeated!

The triangle makes all the difference

I can remember playing on the playground on my 3rd grade picture day, thinking I would like to grow up to be a woman who wore dresses and skirts instead of pants.  I recall thinking a dress was the ultimate sign of femininity, and therefore the best choice for any woman who wanted to be thought of as a woman.  I had dreamy visions of the pioneer women marching across the prairies in their long skirts, and housewives tying aprons around their beautiful dresses and doing the dishes.

Now, I've been trained to think that dresses and skirts aren't always practical.  And by today's standards for dress, I would have to agree. Hemlines have risen considerably in the last thirty years, and I can't even begin to imagine how a woman could get down on the floor in her power pencil skirt and clean up the blocks her child flung across the room.  Perhaps it would be the getting up that would prove to be more tricky.  Having sat with a child on my lap in church in a  modest-length dress, I marvel at a woman's ability to keep that hemline from creeping too far up when a fidgety child looses patience with sitting and wants to stand on her lap.

And yet, I think my 3rd grade self was on to something. Dresses and skirts have been the symbol of womanhood for, well, ever.   In fact, it's such a mark of our gender, that we put a cute little triangle on our bathroom sign's stick person to designate the female from the male.  Women in pants has only crept into the standards in the last 50 years of our history.  I'm beginning to wonder if we've lost something when we threw out the dress and pulled on the pants.  I'm beginning to wonder if we've lost our sense of femininity and have forgotten what it means to be a woman.

A woman in a dress must be alert and careful with herself.  Knees must be touching, and ankles crossed, tucked in ever so neatly under her chair.  She must be aware of her hemline when she bends over, and she must wear shoes that accent the prettiness of her dress (even if it is a full-length, everyday, "working" dress).  But isn't that was being a woman is all about?  Isn't part of the calling to be alert and aware- not just with her attire, but her house, her children, her marriage? And she does it with grace and dignity, though she may be gritting her teeth because it's uncomfortable.

A woman dusting the baseboards, cooking dinner, or rinsing a soiled diaper while wearing a dress seems quaint.  But put that same woman in pants, and suddenly, she seems mundane.  There is nothing about her to set apart from the humdrum and dirt involved in her work.  Even in her raggedy dress, Cinderella was charming.  The dress serves as the reminder that it is a woman doing the tasks in her careful, loving manner, not a machine or robot doing what it has been trained to do.  The focus shifts from the work to the person.

I'm not saying that wearing pants is ungodly, or that no women should pants, ever.  I much prefer to rinse the soiled diapers while wearing my comfortable jeans than a dress.  But I do wonder how much we'd gain if we'd chuck the pants and opt for a sensible skirt or washable dress more often. Perhaps dusting could be womanly again.

She radiates tenderness!Mary Cassatt, The Child's Bath

Of Family Dinner

Writes Caitlin Flanagan (told you I loved her!):

"Their [writers of family dinner advice] notions about the meal and its importance in family life are rooted in middle-class American assumptions about how and when parents and children ought to interact.  What they are loath to admit is that the great missing element of that kind of existence is not dinner gongs or lists of conversations starters.  It's a kind of family life in which expectations have not been raised, but radically lowered.

"It requires a mother who considers putting dinner on the table neither an exalted nor a menial task, and also a collection of family members whose worldly ambitions are low enough that they all happen to be hanging around the house at six-thirty.  For family life to mimic the postwar ideal that is our current fixation, we would need to revive the cultural traditions that created it: the one-income family, the middle-class tendency toward frugality, and the understanding that one's children's prospects won't include elite private colleges and stratospheric professional success, both of which may hinge on tremendous achievements in the world of extracurricular activities.

"If children are to have unstructured time, they need a mother at home; no one would advocate a new generation of latchkey children.  But she must be a certain kind of mother--one willing to divest her sense of purpose from her children's achievement.  She must be a woman willing to forgo the prestige of professional life in order to sit at home while her kids dream up new games out in the tree house and wait for her to call them in for a nourishing dinner.  She must be willing to endure the humiliation of forgoing a career and of raising tots bound for state college."


Taken from To Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing our Inner Housewife, "The Executive Child."

I have no need for friendship?

Caitlin Flanagan has become one of my favorite journalists in recent years, as she writes so well of the modern family and encourages her readers to question our current state of affairs.  One of the articles she wrote for The Atlantic, "Housewife Confidential," contrasts the modern day "at-home mother" with the "housewife" of years past.  (For the record, I identify more with the "housewife" than the "at-home mother," but that's another post.)

I've been bemoaning of the main differences the last couple of days (and nights) when I've been stuck alone with a fussy kid, in desperate need of a break and a friend.

She writes, "The kind of childhood that many of us remember so fondly—with hours of free time, and gangs of neighborhood kids meeting up after school—was possible partly because each block contained houses in which women were busy but close by, all too willing to push open a window and yell at the neighbor boy to get his fool bike out of the street."

There once was a time when women stayed home- with their babies, with their children- all hours of the day, rather than drop them at daycare or transport them to a different activity each night.  These women were there, in their houses, going about the work of the house.  While they may not have been making regular playdates with the children across town, I'm sure that they would have been available to lend a hand when a fellow housewife was at her wit's end with her own children.  If they were willing to discipline her child by yelling out their windows, they would have payed her a visit if she called in tears. Or at least sent their eldest daughter over as a mother's helper for the evening.

But now, when a mother has been left to tend to her house and child alone, and she feels the same anguish, she looks out the window, and realizes she's alone.  The town has emptied with everyone running to work, and she has no help.  How does she go about making friends, when she doesn't cart her children to different activities each day, and the only other adults she sees in a week beside her husband, are the members of her church who attend the same service on Sunday morning?  Or has loneliness just become part of the burden she must bear as a mother?




Flanagan's full article is here.

Laundry woes

Lest you go thinking I'm that woman, rest assured.  I don't do laundry. Really.  I have stacks upon stacks of laundry overflowing onto the floor.  I can say it's because I really don't want to go down into my creepy basement, but really, it's just because I'm lazy and hate laundry.  So there it sits, until my husband realizes he has no matching socks or clean pants, and he takes a load or two down himself, which then makes me feel guilty that I haven't done it.  You'd think guilt would be the motivator to head down once a day with a load or two myself, but I'm a master excuse-maker, and probably just too lazy.

A Strong Woman

I came across this beautiful description of a strong woman while reading Michael Perry's Truck: A Love Story.  Notice her strength comes not from her ability to strap a man's shoes and win the bread- rather, it comes from making the bread and feeding it to her children.  A bit lengthy, but bear with me.

"I was raised by strong women.  Of course they could only do so much.

"I use the term raised  in the perpetual sense, because the work continues.  There is my mother, of course, sentenced to nature's most blessed curse, in which the female is expected to give of her body and blood in the rearing of a creature bound to bring trouble on the house.  Not to mention the heart.  A child is prayer and worry wrapped in a blanket.  Tax deductible, yes, but oh, the hidden costs.  You might describe my mom as the valedictorian homecoming queen who wound up a God-fearing homemade granola-slingling Florence Nightingale in a maxiskirt and construction boots stuck on a cow farm. 

"Over the years she has taken responsibility for for the care and feeding of legions of children--some conceived, some adopted, some fostered, some delivered by the county for the weekend, others for a lifetime.  She is slight of build, and (to use her phrase) just mortified by public attention (thus I write of her in the broadest terms), but I have watched three firefighters rush to her with an unconscious baby and then enclose her in a semicircle of hulking apprehension while she calmly gets the kid breathing again.  I have also seen her up to her elbow in the rear end of a sheep and giving rescue breaths to a newborn Holstein calf. (Mind you, not simultaneously.) 

"For forty years she has raised a constantly fluctuating passel of tots, drawing on her wits, fifty-pound bags of oatmeal, and a fistful of coupons the size of a bad UNO hand.  There were undoubtedly sleepless nights, but she never betrayed them."

Fear not, the next paragraph goes on to describe her inefficiencies and weirdness, including a strange hand tic and her inability to fold a basket of clothes without getting distracted.

I have reread that passage several times now, and the only thought I have is this: Would that I could be like her.

Of Home and Housework

I'm rather amazed at everything I can accomplish in one day, and still have some energy left by the time my son goes to bed.  Besides general cleaning and dinner preparation, I can go to the grocery store, walk to the post office, make bread or cookies, and do a load of laundry.  (I realize some of you may be thinking, "Well sure, she's only got one!"  Rest assured, for every ounce of cuteness in my son, there is a pound of "Hold Me!"  Most of my day is spent one-armed singing Yankee Doodle and various nursery rhymes.)

Granted, I am squeezing a lot of work into the glorious 40 minute nap, and I do a lot of kitchen clean-up after dinner, when my husband can baby-wrangle for me; but still, the possibilities are endless.  I can do my dishes!  I can scrub and vacuum the floors weekly!  I can read a book! I can clean the windows! I can shine my silver! I can make dessert!

Look out home, I'm apron-clad, wielding a spatula and broom!

After I retrieve them from my son.

I don't feel so bad for wearing sweats.

There's a reason I don't watch the Emmy Awards.  Or the Acadamy Awards. Or any other awards.  I find the hubbub slightly ridiculous.  I like good acting as much as the next guy; I have a Netflix account.  But when it comes down the glitz and glamor, it has no place in my life.  Those women were professionally dressed and styled- and gorgeous.  They are, after all, the Ideal American Woman. So I found it rather appalling when I overheard (I do mean overheard.  My son can turn the TV on by biting the remote) the criticism concerning their dresses, makeup, and hair.  The following comments from the Today Show seemed more appropriate directed at me on any given day, not them.  So I laughed.  I don't feel so bad for wearing sweats and t-shirts anymore.  Have a laugh with me.

"Her hair was just kind of down and blah."

"Her hair looked not as polished as it could- or the makeup either."

"She needs a product for frizzies.  There was some serious static- electrostatic something or other going on in that head.  Not a fan of it."

"She was so busy getting her dress on, she didn't have time for her hair!"

"This is a really great testament to why some dresses work in magazines, but not in person."

My Sunday morning glitz and glamor

My new addiction

Embroidery! What a wonderful thing I have found.  It started a desire to make Hubby's stoles while we're out on vicarage. The problem was, I hadn't ever tried to embroider anything.  So I figured someone out there would have put out some videos to show me the basics, or I could find someone in the congregation to teach me. Last week, I found a great website with over 50 videos of stitches, and I tried the simpler ones, then moved on to the more complicated and complex.  Now, I can't stop.  I'm dreaming up the elaborate designs I could make, deciding which stitches I can use to best fill in designs, and trying to master perhaps one of the most complex stitches out there, the plaited braid stitch. I'm close. Very close. I'll give it one more try tonight before bed. 

Won't that make a lovely border on a stole?

Check our Mary Corbet's embroidery blog here.

Set it, and forget it!

The Witherspoon Institute has an interesting article reflecting on the Pill's 50th anniversary, and the consequences of the newer forms of contraception.  R.J. Snell argues that IUD's and hormonal implants will further separate fertility from sexuality by allowing society to more completely "forget" that fertilization is the natural purpose of our sexuality.

As an experienced pill user, I can honestly say that the pill didn't help me forget that children are the natural result of my relationship with my husband.  Rather, it helped me remember that children were the unwanted natural result of our relationship.  I worked hard to remember that little pill, and if I forgot, we worked hard to remember Plan B.

With the newer forms of birth control, I wouldn't have had to remember to take that darned pill every day.  As Ron Popeil would say, I could "Set it, and Forget it!"  Not only could I forget about remembering to take my pill, I could forget that I was trying to prevent children from intruding on my marriage, and my marriage bed.  I would never have to think about how I denying myself one of God's greatest blessings.

At least with the pill, I had a daily reminder that I was actively trying to prevent children.  At least with the pill, I had to question each month if I should refill my prescription. At least with the pill, I could opt out of contraception without having to make an appointment with my gynecologist.  At least with the pill, there was a chance I would consider the consequences of my decisions.

Get the full article from the Witherspoon Institute here.

Advice from Miss Reed

"Let me give you this advice. It is the first and last I shall offer you. If you divide each day into sections and perform some useful task to timetable, the day will be over before you know it. You will be dependent on your own senses and not have to be flattered and admired in order to know that you exist." 

I knew I had read Jane Eyre multiple times for a reason.  And here it is, the useful tasks I aim to perform each day.

Monday: Load of laundry, scrub bathrooms (including floors)
Tuesday:  Load of laundry, scrub kitchen floor
Wednesday: Load of laundry, dust and vacuum living and dining room
Thursday: Load of laundry, dust and vacuum bedrooms
Friday:  Load of laundry, sew
Saturday: Read, Relax, Rest
Sunday: Church, make something fantastic for Sunday dinner
Everyday: Wash dishes, declutter rooms of toys, shoes, books, and mail, make lunch and dinner

Children as Idols

Issues, Etc.'s roundtable discussion on the challenges and joys of motherhood made me wonder how I would respond to the same questions.   Are children idols? From my classroom experience, yes, quite often.  Parents run their lives according to their children's sports teams and spelling tests.  It's no wonder we often choose to limit our families to one, two, or three children.  They seem more like personal assistants, neatly scheduling their children's lives, being careful not to double-book practices with family dinners or neighborhood playdates; gathering needed items for these neatly scheduled appointments; and personally accompanying them to every activity, checking with the adults "in charge" to be sure that they didn't forget anything their child might need.

What happened to responsibility?  When did we decide that children were too young to think and make decisions for themselves?  Our schools bend over backwards to deliver homework lists to the parents, rather than having the students write the homework in the assignment notebook.  (Surely you remember those- handy little inventions of spiral-bound calendars, plenty of blank space for filling in assignments, due dates, and lunch money reminders.)  We forgive late grades on assignments parents forgot to do.  We put the "OK" on the assignments done in (rather obviously) adult handwriting.  We call home when the child forgets the permission slip for the field trip, or the much-needed lunch money.  Why? Becaue parents always come to the rescue.  And if we don't give them that opportunity, we are to blame.

I just have a hard time picturing June Cleaver or Clair Huckstable running forgotten lunches and backpacks to the school to save their children from grumbling tummies or late grades.

And so it goes . . .

This is my attempt at a testimony of my life as a housewife.  May we all be that excellent wife who sees well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.