Pink, the color pink, I always think of this color when I think of domesticity. I read an article this morning about cooking, it talked about all the cookbooks offering recipes for 30 minute gourmet meals. The author felt it was unfair because most of the books and recipes are written by chefs! It was a point I never considered, I mean I just figured I could learn about the ingredients if I wasn’t familiar or learn techniques I don’t know. And that’s what I’ve done, I’ve cooked dinner almost every night for the past twelve years, the whole time Alan and I have lived together. It was agreed upon that I was in charge of cooking, cleaning, shopping for groceries, and now taking care of the kids. I can cook anything for any size group up to thirty. I’ve trained myself, I’ve trained myself to push through the times my mind is foggy and my body is too tired to cook. Sometimes I leave the dishes for the morning and sometimes I order pizza, but I realized that I have a full time cooking gig! It takes a lot of time organizing, prepping, cooking, cleaning. Before the babies were born I was stressing out BAD about it, my kitchen duties. I worried I wouldn’t be able to cook dinners anymore. Alan and my therapist, I think thought I was crazy to have such worries. But I take my duties to heart, literally! Eating bad food causes heart disease and my mom died of a massive heart attack and so did her mom and dad. My mom was raised on homemade sausage and second hand smoke. Her mom was polish. Anyhow at the end of the article I said “oh my gosh, according to this woman, who had A one year old, I’m doing something REALLY difficult!”
Yesterday the stiching got me thinking a lot about domesticity, today I brought out the pink. Thinking about being female, being a wife, a housewife. Today this lady at Fiona’s school talked to me about doing a nanny share over the holidays so her little girl can socialize. I said “yeah, but I don’t want to have to do any work during the time she’s here so we need to make sure Lindsay can handle three toddlers” she agreed and went on to tell me she’s “back to work now” As I walked away I thought “I work too, I’m a painter and a writer” But it’s not a job in the traditional sense and my husband certainly doesn’t view it as so. Does anyone? Does anyone respect that I have a job as a painter and writer? I don’t know. What about a cook? A cleaner? A childcare provider? Teacher? I know they’re my own kids. But I guess my point is I have A lot of duties and obligations, none of which I get paid for or respect for. Maybe a little but nothing like getting a paycheck or a boss telling you you’ve done a great job, here’s a bonus. I’m always trying really hard, to keep up, to do a good job , but I’m always forgetting to pay a bill or making the wrong dinner or blah blah blah. “I want some respect dang it” The thing is I can only respect myself and pat my own back and hopefully one day sell some paintings.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 