A Beginning

It’s so difficult to begin writing anything, but a blog is one of the hardest. I guess I’m supposed to define myself now. List my limitations.

Wife, Mother, Stepmother, Daugher, Stepdaughter, Writer, Reluctant Dogkeeper and worst of all, Homemaker… It sounds so boring.

And it is, sometimes.

Three years ago, I was single, successful, fashionable, cutting edge. Now, my world has folded again and again on itself until it resembles a note my 14-year-old stepdaughter would shove to a friend in Geometry. Now, I fold laundry, cook dinners, wash the baby, shop for groceries, and listen to a voice of dissension grow louder and louder inside my head.

There’s happiness and contentment in being home, in caring for a family. There’s also crushing boredom and unrest. There’s a wild unwillingness to let go of a small inner spark that never knew the meaning of boundaries until now.

The funny thing is that when I was younger, I used to fantasize about being a housewife. Staying home seemed so much easier. Now I fantasize about working again. Or at least about the good parts of working. Socializing, gossiping, lunching out, commanding respect. No one sees anything glamorous about a housewife. No one. Not the handyman, not the people I meet at cocktail parties, not even my own parents.

“When are you going back to work?” everyone asks. “Are you back at work yet?”

As if all the work I’m doing at home is meaningless. As if I’m sitting at home on my sofa, watching The Price is Right all day, while everyone else makes important contributions to society.

I was used to being the center of attention. I saw myself that way. But after a year of staying home, I’m starting to see myself the way others see those in my position. Boring. Marginal. Gray.

This blog is my chance to change all that.

 

Image via Jamies Rabbits/Flickr