woman in housedress
I cannot believe what I have seen, lately.
And that comment deserves an explanation.
The wedding wowed us all, and my son, no doubt, rejoices, now. We’ll talk about that later, I’m sure.
But what I realize suddenly, is that for the last 42 years, I have been co-existing with my kids. That thought barely fits inside my head. Just barely. For 42 years, I’ve had kids in my corner — whether pre-borns, school-aged, or 20-somethings, they were my kids and they were here.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly they have sought their niches and moved on to life as they envisioned it.
I wonder if they envisioned it accurately, any better than I did. I mean, I always wanted six children, but I never, even once, thought I would live with kids for 42 years. It makes me laugh because it sounds like I ran an orphanage. Often I jokingly said of my profession, that I helped my husband manage a home for children who would otherwise be homeless. I believed that, even while I laughed about it. I joke about someone else doing their laundry for a change, and I believe that, too, as I laugh.
The time arrives when all that work is over and I enjoy reaping grandkids and such. I re-arrange furniture in empty bedrooms, glad for the space, glad for a chance to access the under-bed areas with a broom and mop, daring not to allow the mixed emotions a venue, terrified of second thoughts, unable to admit missed chances, refusing to ponder the distance to check on these kids, allowing only the happy-thoughts.
I did it. They are raised and gone. Their rooms are again mine. I can have a sewing room and an office.
And more money for luxuries.
And more clean.
And more time.
And more quiet.
And my own way, more.
This brings me to the saying for Saturday, a chorus from an old song by Glen Campbell: Dreams of the Everyday Housewife
Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife
You see everywhere any time of the day
An everyday housewife
Who gave up the good life
However the writer of this song assumes the wife longs for the good ol’ pre-marriage days, it fails to realize what it juxtaposes:
Wrinkles vs. young men’s ridicule — give me wrinkles, any day.
Apron vs. dancing men waiting in line for her — really; that’s the good life.
Closet vs. photos, and dried flower crumbling — actually, I have many, many photos and flowers, none crumbling, and I could use another closet.
Housedress vs. mind-blowing gowns — the way I dress in the house is far more sensible and comfortable and desirable and if gowns are the “good life”, I’d give them up in a heartbeat for what I’d really like.
I’d really like to ride that “housewife” ride all over again.
(Photo credit: bondidwhat)