They Told Me I Am a Woman

They said I can do anything.

Who “they” are, I don’t know.

But I suppose they were right.

I’ve not yet tried something I couldn’t do. I am completely confident that with sufficient time and persistence, I could do anything.  

I don’t think that’s vain. After all, I didn’t say it would be easy. I just said I could do it. Eventually.

So they were right. I can do anything.

But they were wrong, too.

See, they also said that “can” means “should” and “anything” means “everything.”

They said I can do anything, but what I heard, what I’ve recently realized I believe, is:

  I should do everything.

I can’t be the only one who heard that. Right?

Given our societies obsession with feminism, women’s lib, girl power, and strong female characters, how could we not? How could we not feel pressure to do everything and do it perfectly? Because we can. Because we should.

I’m a stay at home mom, but I feel like I should also provide a supplementary income in some creative way that takes absolutely no time away from my son. I feel like I should be a handyman, able to fix every problem around the house myself. I should handle car problems. I should have an amazing meal prepared at the same time every night. I should pre-pack aesthetically

pleasing and healthy lunches for my husband and son. I should get plenty of exercise every day. I should make sure my husband, son and dog get plenty of exercise every day.

I should host fabulous parties with all of my friends, where everything is homemade and the table is laid out with expensive dishes and centerpieces. I should have lots of friends in the first place. I should host play groups. I should spend hours reading to my son and teach him the ABC’s now that he’s almost two. (Because we’re so so behind on Kindergarten prep.)  

I should have an entire summer of fun, age appropriate “sensory” activities (whatever that means) planned for my son. I should spend hours on crafts for our five-minute family home evening lesson, because everyone knows you can’t learn anything by simply reading scriptures together.

I should be happy all the time, but my gosh! I’m exhausted just typing all of the things I should be doing. It makes me crazy just to think about it all. And I haven’t listed a small fraction of the things floating around in my head that belong on that list.

I’m sure you have your own, very long list. I don’t know if you’re a working mom, a single mom, or if you have any kids at all, but I know you have a list.

And ladies, I truly think that we can do everything. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. Whether we should is another question—one that I don’t have an answer to.

But should or should not, here is my confession: I don’t want to.

There. I said it. I don’t want to. I don’t want to work to supplement our income, or fix cars, or so many other things on the list that’s been imprisoning me.

There are so many things I don’t want to do, but there are just as many that I do.

I love cooking for my family. I love reading with my son. I love spending hours on a craft for our five-minute lesson. But when I try to do everything, I end up not loving any of it.

I want to love being a mom. I want to love being a wife. I want to love being a homemaker. So I’m going to let myself love it. I’m going to joyfully fulfill those responsibilities that I choose to take on. I’m going to let my husband fulfill the responsibilities he’s chosen to take on, and we’re going to let go of the ones that aren't that important to us.

Because I’m a woman, and I can do that too.




Do you think you should do everything? What things will you let go of?

How To: Nearly Kill Your Family

Photo by H. Berends via stock.xchng

Check the clock. 11:30 pm. Wonder what you were thinking staying up so late. Again! Pull yourself up off the couch and away from your knitting. Stretch out your fingers. This will probably hurt. You've been knitting since the baby went to bed three hours ago.

Head into the bathroom so you can start your nightly routine. Brush your teeth. Skip the floss. (Yes, that's routine too.) Wash your face somewhat less than thoroughly.  Turn off the lights, climb into bed, pull up the covers, and…STOP! It’s Saturday. Tomorrow is Sunday. And you neglected laundry this week. Roll out of bed. Check the closet. Bad news. You don’t have a clean shirt for church.

Try not to cry as you sort through the "whites" bin and carry your pile of smelly clothes through the house to the laundry room.  You’re mad now. Why did J. make you stay up so late? Why did the neighbor decide to walk the dog at midnight? Why does said neighbor always yell at said dog at midnight? Why did Hallmark air that movie in October that you had to record and had to watch tonight? Why hasn’t someone invented a laundry-bot yet? Ignore that small yet persistent voice of reason in the back of your mind saying you should only be mad at yourself. This isn’t your fault.

Because you’re exhausted, it’s best to move slowly. Carefully transfer the dirty clothes from the floor to the washing machine, one article at a time. Notice black stains in the armpits of the shirt you were hoping to wear tomorrow—your favorite, most expensive Caslon white t-shirt that you were hoping to wear tomorrow. Pretend that something is in your eye. You don’t cry over laundry. Vow to never, never, never wear a black cardi over a white t-shirt again!

Grab your glass bowl and fill it with warm water. Mix in a heaping scoop of that DIY laundry detergent you're so proud of and slosh the shirt around in there. Scrub the stains vigorously for a few minutes. Stop. You’re getting nowhere. Spot the bleach on shelve. Recklessly grab the bottle and dump some in your shirt/detergent/armpit-stain mixture.

Wonder why it’s fizzing. Wonder what that smell is. Dump it all down the drain pronto! Panic as you google the ill-effects of mixing bleach with every single ingredient you put in that laundry detergent. Find little helpful info. Fels-naptha? Borax? Washing Soda? Oxiclean? Oxiclean. Read right on the Oxiclean label, “Do not mix with products containing ammonia, chlorine bleach, or with other household chemicals.” 

Well, s%@&t!¹   

Frantically run around with your shirt up over your face bandit style, eyes squinted, and arms flapping. Open every window. Turn on every fan and vent. Run the tap water down the drain where you poured your poison, just in case. Who knows what chemicals are floating all over your house, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to breath them in so they can wreak havoc all over your insides!?

Check the baby. Check the hubby. Check the dog. Everyone is still breathing. For now.

Spend another thirty minutes googling chlorine gas poisoning, bleach, and Oxiclean. Spend way too much time reading about chlorine gas poisoning and WWI. Pray really hard that you and your family won’t wake up dead. Throughout this whole process you should intermittently zone out, giving yourself time to mentally compose your hate letter to Oxiclean. (Or Clorox? No, Clorox has been around longer. Oxiclean it is.)

Why, Why, Why would anyone make a laundry detergent that cannot be mixed with bleach, a known laundry detergent!  

Decide not to send that letter. But you’ll definitely be switching detergents. Your mom’s been telling you about a great non-toxic, totally natural one for months. And if you’re going to be doing laundry at midnight again, it’s probably safer anyway.

¹ Shoot. What did you think I meant?

I Don't Do Sappy

Image by Eng Chun Chia via stock.xchange

Maybe it’s because I recently had a conversation with some friends about how we met our husbands. Or maybe it’s because my hubby has been surprising me with a treat every morning this week and maybe it’s just because it’s February. Whatever the reason, I’ve been feeling particularly sappy.

I don’t normally do sappy. I’m one of those girls who cringe when I see posts on Facebook about how great/hot/sweet/thoughtful someone’s husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend is. First I think, “Oh, brother.”  And then it makes me feel guilty because I’m not sappy.  It’s not that I don’t love my husband. But if I want him to know that, I just tell him. I see no need to announce it to the world. The only person who matters already knows how I feel. Right?

And then there are the questions that somehow always come up when you meet new people. How did you and your husband meet? How did he propose? What are your favorite things about him? I have my standard, one sentence answers for these. “We met at a party. He proposed at Multnomah Falls. Uh….everything?” It’s not that I don’t have answers. I have really good answers, actually! It’s just that...well, they’re my answers! Mine and my husband’s. And really, how do you answer questions about the most important person and event in your life in the course of a simple conversation with someone you barely know anyway?

My answer to that question is: “You don’t!" You don’t share it. But as I’ve mentioned, I’m feeling particularly sappy lately. And I’m becoming sooooo forgetful since having a baby. So I’d like to write about my love story before I forget the details! Maybe one day, I will share it with you. For now, it’s mine.