Just a housewife. Pickin’ up; the floor littered with Legos, Blocks, dirty clothes, every time I think I have it all picked up I walk by another dirty dish to bring to the sink and wash or bend down to pick up a piece of trash on the floor, blood rushing to my face, realizing my hamstrings are tight and I need to stretch. Putting it away, throwing it away, giving it away. Taking it. (Me: A Whore. It all comes down to fucking. Wet and Big. Vulgarity.) Time to vacuum. Vacuous. Space. My two year old son keeps saying something that sounds like fuck but I’m convincing myself it’s truck. And on the deck last night my daughter said, “People die” as she looked to the sky. I said, “are there people in the sky?” She said yes. Indulging myself I asked, “Is my mom in the sky?” She said, “Yes”. It’s Naptime now. Hummus, corn chips, cherry tomatoes, and ginger tea for lunch. Air hot, humid today. Time to take off my bra for the rest of the day. This morning after I dropped the babies off at Early Start, I walked Billy on the trail behind the school, green hills with patches of purple, dark shadows under the oak tree, the warm air tempting me to take off all my clothes and walk naked on the dirt trail. I used to hike topless in the nineties, protesting the fact that men can take off their shirts almost anywhere and it would be accepted, but not me, I’m not supposed to show too much cleavage, I’m supposed to keep my breasts covered with bras and tops, not too tight or I look slutty, not too loose or I look frumpy. The outlines or raised surface of my nipples to be masked, hidden. I was always self-conscious of my boobs. I finally don’t care anymore. There is a man cutting trees in the neighborhood, his power tool is so loud, I need to close all the windows before I go crazy. That is so much better. As I just made my way through the house, closing windows and doors, I picked up a piece of stuffing from pink bear, looked at surfaces that needed cleaning, wondered if I should stop writing and start dusting or stop writing and go paint something before the babies wake up. I have some decisions and considerations to make. Now and beyond. I am flying solo right now, no part time babysitter or nanny. I’ve had someone three days a week since Jack and Fiona were Eight months old. Between those three days and naptimes I’ve been keeping my head above water and have been able to write and paint. I’ve considered being an artist my job, justifying the expense of the part time nanny, plus being able to take breaks to keep my own sanity. But I make no money being an artist, I only spend money. My husband always used to say “Art is a hobby”, I would get so mad. But maybe he’s right. Maybe I should become something else. Maybe I should focus on raising Jack and Fiona and do art on the side. Be the ultimate housewife. It never dawned on me until after the last democratic presidential debate that I’m not accruing any social security benefits. (thanks Hilary for reminding me) I never thought about it too hard because I’ve always worked. Until now. I still work but it’s all under the table. No one knows what I do but my husband. Am I a kept woman? Am I a whore? Am I both of those things? Am I a ghost? Division of labor. Traditional vs. Non- Traditional. It’s fluid and multi-dimensional. I like cleaning, being a housewife, a mom. Raising Jack and Fiona. But I always feel like there’s more I could do. I feel like I should bring home a paycheck somehow. But how? I’m going to be a stay at home mom until Jack and Fiona go to Elementary School. That’s always been the plan. So the question is should I save money on the nanny until then? Or will I be giving up too much painting time? Time to myself? Free Time? Will I go CRAZY? Or am I already crazy? Maybe no one would ever hire me again? Maybe I would never want to work for anyone again. Well it’s almost that time. Jack and Fiona will wake up soon. I need to finish cleaning before they get upstairs, because they will be ready to make another big mess, and then the mess will multiple and take forever to clean!
Category: crazy stuff
-
I think I heard them and I think I need to go get them soon. I had a short break, I got them down by 2:00pm, we went to a super fun playdate this morning. After I put them down I came upstairs, planning on writing. But the shelves stared back at me, the low shelves, my anxiety and stress, I need to reduce the danger. I feel like I spend most of my spare time these days putting everything that’s on shelves into boxes behind locked doors. I barely write or paint anymore. I’m constantly locking things away, childproofing, and pulling Jack and Fiona out of sinks. I spend a lot of time thinking about what they’ll get into next. They’re so fast and able. It’s Insane. It’s driving me Insane, I’m always in fight or flight mode. When they are awake I have to constantly be on the move, simultaneously preparing snacks and meals, cleaning up, playing playdough with Fiona, pushing Jack on the swing or turning on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, “Oh Tootles” or is it “Toodles?” “We need to find a mouskatool” How silly. I never watched Mickey Mouse as a little kid, my mom was anti- Disney. I have to admit I’m intrigued by the sick shit, which it really is. Especially the way none of the mouse’s have teeth. And how Minnie and Daisy Duck have eyelashes and big butts, heals, and bloomers sticking out. Did Minnie or Daisy ever have baby ducks? Now I know how moms can become totally absorbed in their children. I said it would never happen to me, that I was strong enough, but sometimes I feel like giving in, just being a mom. It takes so much energy, especially now. I think until they are three. I’ll still write and paint, but I’m not putting myself on a strict schedule for a while, a few months. The babies are awake now. Something happened a few minutes ago. I’m so paranoid, I heard a door screech. I thought there was someone in the house. I got a knife and walked out of the kitchen down the hall quietly holding the knife out like I was in a horror film. I realized it was only the bathroom door that had creaked. It’s a breezy afternoon. Kind of spooky afternoon. I put the knife back and then I started to worry about the knives, what if the babies get to the knives. I started trying to find a practical place to store the knives and nowhere worked. I started to panic before I was able to pull myself away from my own paranoia. It was intense. Now I have to go get them.
-
It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve written. With an erratic nap schedule, erratic moods, erratic everything, erratic everything, I’ve given myself permission to lay off the S.O.P. and go with the flow of energy, absorbing the mind fatigue like a sponge in milk. Like the sponge I use daily to wipe up all the dirt and grime spread evenly through our house and car like green grass on the spring hills. My insides feeling pressure and pain as I battle like a trooper searching for relaxation, light, time, and a clearing of the fog of drama that has entered my delicate soul. True inconsistences between me and other parts of my world, the big beautiful cluster fuck of reality. But I sit here now within the fire, the burning of my bra, they did it for a reason you know, not just to protest for women’s freedom, but also because bras wrap tight around the ribs, digging in, leaving a red mark, insulating toxins, growing cancer, they knew it was just an extension of the Chasity belt. I’m not playing their games anymore, the games of patriarchy. That is what this comes down to for me, that erratic unease, unrest, dis-satisfaction with the system, with reality. My fight goes way beyond student loan reimbursements, I mean am I gonna get a refund for working full time, putting myself through college, will I get a refund of the money I used from my savings account that I paid for graduate school with? Fuck a phone call buzzing on my stupid IPhone, now my conversation is broken, now I have to check my message. What I’m proposing is a respect for myself. For my practice. I cannot be on-call. I propose a total respect for women. I want all the judgements about people based on their appearances, their dress, to go away. I want people to get off the fucken band wagon and think for themselves, I want the ugliness to go away. I want women to finally be viewed and treated as human, not sex objects, I want women to be able to walk around braless anytime anywhere without it meaning anything, it’s not slutty or dykey, or trashy. It’s our body. The only reason that our bodies are looked at in this way is because of advertisement, brainwashing, Barbie’s, look at what the world has done to women. We’ve been used and now we are paying for it. The bra has to go. Only wear during exercise when you don’t want jumping squirrels in your tops. It’s bullshit.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 