It’s just past 10am on this Wednesday…
I never get to blog on Wednesday mornings, not that I get to blog anytime I want on other mornings either. As a stay-at-home mom it’s been a struggle resolving myself to the fact that my mornings revolve around everyone but me. This wasn’t easy for me. It’s everything I wanted but it’s also been one of my more quiet battles fought with myself in the last year. Giving up some control some days…
Noah stays home all day on Wednesdays with me. No, he’s stuck like glue to me on Wednesdays is more like it. His daycare is closed on Wednesdays, while on the other 4 weekdays he’s there for 4 hours a day. For 16 hours a week Noah plays and learns more Dutch words. I’d say I get to spend 5 of those 16 hours all to myself alone, per week, to partake in one of these luxuries:
– Bathe and relax and groom instead of just shower and shave and run
– Masturbate and keep my own fantasies healthy, whether or not accompanied by porn
– Eat junk food
– Not move in some capacity, sitting or lying down, and this includes peeing and pooping which are legitimate luxuries
It took me a while to nail those down. That list used to be so much longer and sexier and so much more me me me. Needless to say by popular demand there are The Real Housewives and Desperate Housewives, The First Wives and Army Wives, and The Good Wife and lots of other wives in between to pick apart. What is the obsession with wives? Why do we break down and build up women with careless thought the way we do? Admittedly women are worse than men are in attacking women, and therein lies the problem.
You never really know what kind of wife a woman is, unless you live under the same roof with them. If you strip away all the makeup and Instagram and Twitter and Facebook and all the tools used to photoshop real life into something else, that’s where you’ll see what a real wife is. There’s not just one kind just like there’s not just one kind of husband or penis or vagina or Wednesday.
The only wife I’ve lived under the same roof with is my own mother. Momz. She did everything she was supposed to do, and more, as a wife. In my mom’s era there were no reality television shows or even scripted shows like there are now, revolving around wives. My mother never would have thought it proper anyway, and she doesn’t understand why all these reality franchise shows are so popular. She barely understands Big Brother even though her own daughter won the show once.
Without meaning to or trying to, I’ve turned out to be so much like the wife my mother was to my father. I’ve adopted so many of her traits in running a household and I often try to recall how my mother did things, without even realizing it. This never happened when I was single and working in banking. My mornings then too were run by bosses and clients, but at least then I got have my morning poop in peace in my own apartment. I never sat in a client meeting and thought What Would Momz Do. As a mom and stay-at-home wife now I do it all the time.
I’m more than okay with that, and with giving up my Wednesdays completely to being a wife and a mom. How am I blogging at all on this Wednesday morning then? Magic.