It starts when you sink in his arms…

and ends with your arms in his sink. ~ Author Unknown

Which feminist said (was it Friedan?) that a homemaker should not be called a housewife because she is not, in fact, married to a house. A noble distinction but, if we’re being pragmatic, a false one. I *am* married to this house. All day long I clean it, raise my children with it, delight in its small comforts, grow weary of it and the sameness of my day-to-day life with it. I scrub the same floors, wipe down the same counters, and dry the same dishes over and over again in a way more familiar than sexual relations with my spouse. I become obsessed with it and have a hard time getting away from it.

Sometimes I miss, so much, the days where my husband was home and I worked outside the home. Not because I want to work again – I know I have the rest of my life for that – but because I got such a kick out of the pride my husband had in being a homemaker. Truth be told, he is also better at it that I, even though I have had twice as much time at it now. He had more energy than I do; he has more patience with the kids. He is also able to play with the kids without running over a million and one errands in his head.

We are so lucky that he loves his job and we both love the kids. I just wish we saw more of eachother.

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