urban housewife

I’ve been a stay-at-home mother for almost 2 years now. It’s been a hell of a learning curve and I have had to shift my entire understanding of who I am and what I want in order to embrace this lifestyle that is dedicated to nothing but the archetypes of mother and wife. I almost don’t recognize myself as the person with ten years of private education, social and cultural exposure, and thoughts that extended past the meal plan for the week to ponder to mysteries of the universe. I’ve tried to find the enrichment and fulfillment that some women seem to find within those parameters with ease.  I say that at least a little in mockery of myself because it becomes self-imposed at a certain point, but out of necessity. I can’t focus on the daily things, that I once chided as mundane and suffocating, if I am pre-occupied with social injustice and general badassery in my shriveled and atrophied mind. I can plan and execute a housework/toddler roundup/commuting/soccer/ballet/homework/dinner/bath/bed schedule to rival even the best personal assistants but I can’t seem to entertain an existential Ayn-Rand moment without feeling stupid and confused.

**I need to confess something, and it helps plead my case** I had to look up each and every SAT word I used just to make I wasn’t just pretending I still knew those words. Do you know how depressing that is for a nerd girl who used to make cross-lists from Roget’s Thesaurus when she was a kid?

I can’t even hold a normal conversation anymore because my train of thought sputters, backs up, and just flops on its side before it embarks on any creative journey. Accustomed to the attention spans of three children under the age of 13, I think in short bursts of efficient thought. It’s kind of like a Twitter parade. Three kids speaking in staccato at different and varying volumes all…day…long. Some days I don’t have to will to complain and others I’m just seething and barking at anyone who speaks above a barely audible whisper.

HOWEVER, I feel as though the abrupt pause in my personal and internal musings has made me a more critical and practical person. That’s not to say I was ever flighty or prone to fancy, but I used to see mystery in all things and now I’m just annoyed that the mystery gets in the way of my 12 hour rotation. I got shit to do and I don’t have time for all these other 20-somethings and their free time and social lives. But secretly I’m like “Well fuck ya’ll, for not inviting me!” but then when I’m invited I’m like “Fuck that, I’m busy and tired!”  I don’t think that my experience is unique by any stretch. But this is me I’m talking about, not some hypothetical other person that is probably happy in all her decisions and accomplishments thus far and is happy to take refuge in the success and care of her children and husband because she got plenty accomplished and developed before lockdown. Yeah, I’m an asshole and I’m also that frumpy housewife that wears the same outfit day in and out just to reduce the laundry load I inflict upon my person. And your immediate thought was “ugh, I feel sorry for her husband.” but I’m like “fuck that shit!” I pick up enough trash and dirty socks from my kitchen counter and floors that I reserve the right be downright disgusting and undesirable. Ever hear of weapons of the weak? Here are my favorites:

1. Drink out of the milk jug and watch with evil satisfaction when other people in the house use it for their cereal. (Pro-tip: keep an extra carton for guests)

2. Shut down software and active programs needed for remote access. Wait for agitated texts/phone calls

3. Troll the kids at regular intervals. Today, convinced (absent-mindedly managed to do this) my grade-schooler that chickens have eyebrows used to frown at little kids who ask a lot of questions.

4. See how many days I can go without grooming before anyone in the house says anything. You don’t want to know.

5. See how long I can enforce the “If it’s yellow, leave it mellow” rule before a) the husband has to get the plunger because of the enormous wad of paper or b) he flushes and complains and I start an argument about why it’s practical and now I have to start all over again. TROLOLOLOL.

I used to be such an openly assertive and fair person. Now I’m an ankle-biting opportunist with a penchant for spreading emotional confusion. Marriage has taught me things my $100,000 education could never write a syllabus to cover. Manipulation, guilt, and subtle coercion are not tactics I admire, but they sure save on energy. Maybe the worst part of it all is that I’m not even ashamed that I suck at this. Wait…Is this really what marriage is?! It’s just like Everybody Loves Raymond but with a bunch of socially awkward penguins. FFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUU

TL;DR housewife doesn’t have a life. likes to complain that she’s squandering her potential, which probably isn’t true anymore anyway because she’s pushing 30. learns how to be an awesomely efficient troll wife.

Chaos and consciousness

Philosophy is a luxury. What about real daily issues? I much prefer realism. It’s all I have.

What happens when you come to a point in your life when there is nothing that brings you complete happiness and joy because the responsibilities outweigh the fun times. And then when you do take the time to reach out for that feeling again, you end up paying for it (negatively) in some way or another. What do you do? Do you accept it? Is that what people do? I really want to know. I understand this lack of (I don’t even know what to call it) is why some people drink or have insane hobbies but doesn’t that just perpetuate the cycle because all it does is add to the financial stress and take away from the time that the responsibilities are not being met.

The first definition I found of realism: the attribute of accepting the facts of life and favoring practicality and literal truth.

I dislike hypocrisy, but I can respect honesty. If, then, a decision to lead a practical life is based on an honest and sincere believe that it is right, then there is no contradiction. But in expressing dissatisfaction with a present course of action, it can only be assumed that there has been at least in instant in which something has been sensed to be incorrect in some way. There are several ways I can think of to challenge the assertion that realism is the only way to manage a life that has reverted to one in which responsibility and banality dominate and dictate each moment in a person’s life.

Are you a person of religion? Is that not then a philosophy, or at least a groundwork for how to lead a life? I do not believe we were created to toil and suffer; it just came with the territory of consciousness. We were made to love and create and partake of one another. The constructs that we navigate, put in place before we had anything to do with the design, have the seductive qualities of control and stability and the illusion of safety that are inherent in hegemonic systems. It seems it is something we have been conditioned to accept.

If you say “to hell with all these responsibilities,” what will happen? What is the absolute worst case scenario and is it acceptable? If it is not acceptable, what makes it so?

Rebellion. Fearlessness. Courage. Inner anarchy. Irreverence. It’s a minute-to-minute battle between what the soul knows is right and what the world teaches us to accept. Don’t follow men, don’t follow instruction manuals. Choosing to move against the current will forever engage you in struggle and fatigue. I’ve always held my anger to be my strongest gift, quite possible my only gift (which also makes it a vice). It has allowed me to recognize fallacy and given me the courage to defy it stubbornly. I come from a generation of sullen, angry, over-medicated, sedated, and rebellious peers. I don’t have fear of action is because I don’t have fear of consequence. I don’t fear consequence because I have accepted all possible scenarios even before acting.

In the rebellion and battle, there is suffering and confusion. What *seems* to be chaos and the noise of conscience chattering is so loud that it causes the eyes to water and blur. This is the fight over your very soul taking place and you are witness to it only through subconscious perception, or intuition. I don’t know what comes after the realization of free will.

In my struggle to balance my hate for convention and my understanding that I have to function in a physical plane, I occasionally feel guilt that I don’t push myself harder to involve my family in the rat race of competition. Somewhere in the mix, I know I must teach them to steer these waters. However, I also don’t want to instill any admiration for old ways that do not lead to enlightenment.

“Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it. Let me not look for allies in life’s battlefield but to my own strength. Let me not cave in.”

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it’s raining outside so i cracked open the window nearest the sofa. cold sharp drops on metal gratings and worn asphalt. i’m warm, all except my hands, chilly from typing outside the sleeves of this ridiculous snuggie.

i find myself in a new apartment, a new home. once again. unfamiliar but with all the same fittings. the acrid but fading scent of new carpet and paint still snakes from room to room. husband asleep with the baby in one room. my older boy snuggled up in his bunk bed. my daughter off to at her grandmother’s for a needed break from the rest of us.

maybe i’m sleepy. even so, i’m afraid to attempt it again for fear of aggravating the frustration that has just subsided after the first failed effort.

i could write. but there is no rhythm or fluidity to my thoughts anymore, much less my words.

maybe i want to sketch something. yet, when i see a blank sheet of paper, nothing dashes forth, ravenous to fill the empty space.

it’s possible that i want to dance. but the sight of paneled mirrors and barres only makes  bitterest of bile boil and rise. the body can’t remember what the mind knows by heart.

there are books waiting to be read, words to consume, knowledge to ingest and regurgitate. alas, i have no will to seek it out. no focus to offer.

if we are only conscious for one life at a time, and time lurches when you are still gathering your guts to make the most of now, where does regret or wasted potential go? if we are not to look upon our pasts as any indication of our undeclared futures, yet in saying ‘yes’ to NOW, we say yes to all of eternity, what of untapped gifts with expirations?

I am forcing myself to write. I would like to *want* to write, but alas, I do not. A part of me fears that if I allow myself to give it up for too long, it will go by the wayside just as all my loves before it.

Once upon my life, voracious with curiosity and energy,  I pursued any means of creative outlet within reach. Dance, theater, art, writing… When troubles were thrown my way, these became a refuge. But like any cunning beast, misfortune can track down the scent of your cold sweat and revulsion.

Still one marches on, throwing the heavy emotions into the abyss of creative expression in hopes of a resounding echo that will dash away the darkness.  You begin to cling desperately to things you can still call your own. Time. Silence. Self.

But, a life lived too quickly, sours too early. You are fixed in time and space and the world around proceeds without you.

At some point, living vicariously becomes a source of resentment and scorn; it infects the very air around you. Poison for you and those around you.

Life question I’m hoping I’ll resolve soon:

Q: If I am no longer able to do what I love, what is left?

A: I suppose I should resign myself to a life of banality and learn to appreciate what i DO have and am able to do.

I am old. And too many hopes are as too many ornaments upon the old. Unbecoming.

This is what it’s like to have no identity. Plain and simple. I no longer have the agency to cultivate my own sense of self. It was arrested at a time when it was in full force exploration. It is now the product of external forces, formed like a meteor, the result of barrage collisions and weathering.

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scaring myself

little time capsule, full of dust

of bygone days, ground to meal

and set before a table of rabid beasts

prepared to dilute the pulp of your memory

in flasks of tepid water, the spit of ugly words

there will be days when you don’t know

if what you’re feeling wisp against your back

is your unruly disheveled hair

or your creeping sense of despair

there comes a time when the ground reaches far

beyond the grip of your stumbling feet

and you tread air and you tread fire

but you will find no place to alight

is there a place that exists

beyond the uncertainty of flesh?

easy

antidote

anecdote

reflect upon that