March 12, 2009
A Job…Done
Let’s face it: I’m a housewife. I know the term has come to sound vaguely derogatory, but are the modern euphemisms any better? Stay-at-home mom? Bullshit: I spend my days running from the market to the parent-and-me class to the park to the play date. My husband’s the one at home (albeit running his marketing business). Homemaker? I’m not crazy about that label either; I feel that it sets too high of a standard.
The truth is I feel like Sisyphus when it comes to “keeping house.” It seems that the majority of my time at home is spent cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, recovering misplaced objects, and then cleaning some more. Yet I don’t feel like I do any of it particularly well: My cooking isn’t that great. My house isn’t that clean.
It’s not that I’m a bad cook; I just have the special privilege of cooking for two especially picky eaters, so I sometimes end up preparing three completely different meals for lunch and/or dinner. Not surprisingly, they all often end up being pretty mediocre. It’s hard to be invested in making any dish that you know your family isn’t going to sit down and enjoy together.
As far as housekeeping goes, I’ll admit that I’m more of a “straighten up” kind of gal. If it looks cleanish and we don’t have a bug problem, I figure it’s good enough. Because honestly, between the sporadically incontinent dog, the free-roaming toddler and the well-meaning but not-especially-fastidious husband, I would drive myself insane trying to keep the house spotless. But even the seemingly simple tasks of clearing dishes, picking up toys and keeping “stuff” from accumulating on various surfaces sometimes feels like a Herculean effort (am I being too liberal with my references to mythological figures?). The mess just NEVER STOPS.
Still, pretty much every day I can say that I prefer this job to the one I left after Donovan was born. And that’s because of the other implied meaning of the word “homemaker.” I’m creating the most nurturing and stimulating environment possible for my child. Unswept floors and bland meals aside, this home is a safe and loving place for Donovan. And in that sense, he certainly has it made.
October 25, 2008
Thinner
I, like many women, have had my share of body image issues. Despite considering myself to be slender and reasonably fit, I’ve never fully let go of my preoccupation with certain “problem areas” that I don’t recognize in the images of beauty that get endlessly shoved down my throat in magazines, on TV and in the movies. I’m talking about my not-perfectly-taut thighs, the lack of a neat little crease defining each butt cheek, etc.
Easing into my thirties, for the most part, has diminished my physical insecurities. Even as the lines on my face proliferate and deepen, I feel more comfortable in my skin than ever before. (Clever how that works out – the thirties really do beat the twenties handily in many regards.) That said, pregnancy and its aftermath brought with it a renewed obsession with being thin. I was pretty lucky when it came to losing the baby weight fairly quickly, and then I kept going, watching the numbers on the scale drop with growing enthusiasm. I got into the habit of weighing myself every day, sometimes more than once to see how an hour of exercise or careful calorie restriction affected my weight. I’ll stop short of saying I had an eating disorder, but I think I was getting uncomfortably close.
I realize now that a large part of what drove this behavior was my need to assert some sort of control in my dramatically changed life. I found something that I could maintain dominion over from one day to the next, and which had the power to make me feel really good about myself – not only had I achieved something, but I looked good as well! I was a hot mom, dare I say a MILF! The power was intoxicating and addictive.
Also, as ridiculously lame as this sounds, maintaining/losing weight became something of a hobby for me. I was constantly doing math in my head (total number of calories consumed, number of hours until my next meal, duration of time spent on daily exercise), planning what to make for dinner, checking menus online before going out to eat to figure out what I was going to order and allot my calories accordingly.
Again, lame.
So I’ve made a few changes in the hopes that I will avoid turning into a total cliche: the thirty-something Los Angeles woman who always orders a salad with the dressing on the side. I’m only weighing myself once a week, and I’m making an effort to focus more on the nutritional and less on the caloric content of what I’m eating. (But I have to admit, it’s tough to abandon calorie-counting now that I’ve gotten into the habit. It’s funny – I always hated math.)
By writing all this down, I suppose I’m trying to exorcise my body image demons and see things rationally. But the truth is, I still pay way too much attention to what I eat and how much I weigh. Just yesterday I had a near meltdown because my jeans weren’t fitting right. It’s amazing how much I’ve allowed my identity to become wrapped up in what size clothes I wear. It’s not like I’m an actress or someone who’s livelihood depends on my appearance.
Really, what’s the big deal if I gain a couple of pounds if it makes me a more relaxed person in general? I’ll make this my mantra and then – just maybe – I’ll edge a little closer to an enduring state of clearheadedness. And if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to deactivate that goddamn calculator in my head.
