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I Ain't No Housewife

by by Debra Driza

My friend recently told me she’s a good wife, but not a good housewife.  It got me thinking (always a dangerous pastime in our home)—what the heck is a house wife?  I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I married a man, not the outrageously over-priced tract house with the world’s most minuscule kitchen in which we currently reside.  Although I suppose I could be wrong—we did have a helluva lot of booze at our wedding.

Seriously, though, I think the phrase ”housewife“ epitomizes all of the outlandish expectations men have of their wives–for example, things like mopping the floor daily (sorry, I don’t live in a Brady Bunch rerun), or cleaning the toilet until it sparkles (I’ve never really understood the need to clean an appliance that will be instantly sullied by human excrement within hours of washing it), or discarding dirty toenail clippings (hey, they’re biodegradable).   I don’t know about you, but my wedding vows were to love, honor, and cherish—not love, honor, and pick up thy husband’s dirty undies ’til kingdom come.  And I’m pretty sure the latter statement would have penetrated even the haziest of booze-impaired brains.

So, instead, I like to call myself a stay-at-home mom, or SAHM, for short.  (or, if you read dooce, it’s actually an acronym for various profanities–which is equally apropos on any given day).  Honestly, though, I have no problems with this moniker.  I do stay at home—well, except for the plethora of playgroup meetings, music class, gym class, grocery shopping, dog walking, outings to the zoo or Legoland or the beach, picking up the dry cleaning (okay, so I’ve only done that once in my entire married life, but it sounded good), etc, that force me to vacate my residence for seemingly hours on end.  And I am a mom, unless those two little fiends living in my home were beamed down by aliens, whose sole purpose is to study the effects of supreme daily chaos on the human body (boy, are THEY getting an eyeful). 

Come to think of it, I had that second fiend au naturel—and since certain body parts, which shall remain nameless, will never be the same. I suppose the kids are legit. (In case you’re wondering, ”au naturel“ means no drugs, no hospital—just my own house, my own bed, and a leather strap to bite down on—oh, wait, my husband is now telling me that was actually his arm.  Oops.)

But note, the title is stay-at-home mom.  Stay-at-home MOM.  The problem being—this title is an evil lie.  Or, an evil lie of omission, if you will.  Because implicit in this title is a whole list of other things we SAHM's are expected to do on a daily basis, things that are far less appealing than just being a mommy.  Let’s face it, you hear the term stay-at-home mom, and and what do you envision?  Images of smiling, cooing babies, pictures of pristine moms in Jimmy Choos ruffling their equally pristine toddler’s hair, thoughts of decked-out moms and beaming, spotless children skipping hand-in-hand through the meadows, right?   Wrong.  It’s all a bunch of cow manure.  Essence of steer.  Meadow muffins.  It’s a load of poppycock propagated by men so that women will agree to be stay-at-home moms in the first place.  They cunningly neglect to mention all the fun extras that come with the job. 

For example, would you sign up to be a stay-at-home poopy bottom wiper?  A stay-at-home dog barf cleaner?  A stay-at-home dirty undie scooper upper?  I think not.  I mean, seriously, who is going to pee their pants with excitement at the prospect of being a stay-at-home snot sucker outer?  (There may be a lot of pants-peeing going on around here, including my own due to the above-mentioned baby-damaged body parts, but I can guarantee you it ain’t, out of glee over mucous.)  Or a stay-at-home-hubby’s-nasty-hair-clippings-in-the-sink cleaner?   The last time I checked, my Master’s degree did not adequately prepare me for such topics.  Maybe I should petition my school.

One time, my husband proclaimed that he would make a great stay-at-home dad and a great house husband.  I actually think I heard God laugh out loud.  Either that, or one of the dogs blasted us with another of those high-pitched farts.  Don’t get me wrong—my husband is an extraordinarily devoted dad, and an awesome husband and dad in so many ways.  Unfortunately, none of those ways involve either a single iota of  consistent discipline or acceptable human cleanliness.  Basically, our house would implode within a week of leaving him home with the kiddage and doggage.  Think Home Alone, only set in Bosnia instead of the suburbs, and you’ll get the picture.

So, please, make sure you read the fine print before signing on to be a SAHM.  That way, you can start learning how to be a stay-at-home-crusty-booger-wiper-offer far, far in advance.

Debra Driza is a SAHM blogger whose site, Houndrat.com - Kids, Dogs, and a Husband, can be found at http://www.houndrat.com/?page_id=2.