If there are six billion people on the planet and half are women, then it is safe to say that there are 1 billion women on this earth who are currently keeping house (or hut) with their mate (or sans a mate) and maybe raising children. Some of these women have jobs, some don’t. Some have plumbing, some don’t. Some go to grocery stores for food, some slaughter goats in the dirt yard. Some have thick, taupe wall-to-wall carpet, some have compacted mud floors. But all keep house. All sweep. All cook. Many tend to kids. Every day. I jokingly refer to this as the Housewife Olympics. And I not-so-jokingly say that I am not doing very well in the Housewife Olympics.
So, after many years of rebellion against my former passion and conviction, I have decided that I need to at least try. That my rejection was a fair and honest reaction to an intense trauma but that I can now try to resume some normalcy and balance. Don’t get me wrong, my kids eat cauliflower and broccoli and some fruits, but they also eat Dino Nuggets from Costco and prepared frozen pasta from Trader Joe’s. Motherhood can be an altered state. And what with the intensity of it all and with us just being human and making mistakes now and again, we do what works in the moment and try to be kind to ourselves for our choices and move on. Mainly, I just like playing with my kids. The days always go by without trips to the store or time in the kitchen. That is my real glitch—too much playing.