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Updated: November 8, 2021
Originally Published: Jan. 15, 2015
One morning, I found myself unleashing pent-up frustration on an old plastic toy that had long been forgotten. I hammered it repeatedly, like a wild woman on a mission. Pieces of plastic flew everywhere, and I ended up slicing my finger in the process. There I stood, surrounded by the remnants of my fury and a fleeting moment of pride, a miniature disaster sprawled across the floor. And then, as if nothing had happened, I resumed my cleaning. It had been quite some time since I’d felt such intense frustration bubble to the surface. I suppose I was overdue for a little breakdown, and oddly enough, I felt a mix of relief and guilt after giving in to such a childish outburst.
The root of my anger sprouted the night before. My husband was looking for a clean towel before jumping in the shower, but our laundry hamper was overflowing with dirty ones. All that was left in the linen closet were beach towels. Gasp! There I was, on the couch, immersed in my writing. In my mind, I consider myself a writer, but the truth is that, without any income, I’m just a housewife with a passion for writing. I used to teach, and then I became a stay-at-home mom, but now that the kids are in school, I find myself identified primarily as a homemaker. A homemaker who enjoys writing.
Now, let’s be clear. Yes, I’m a homemaker, but that doesn’t mean I strive for domestic perfection. Sure, the kids are at school, but I refuse to spend my days crafting ingenious storage solutions or folding endless piles of fluffy towels. No, I aim for a balance—a comfortable middle ground between order and chaos, with a few moments of brilliance sprinkled in and occasional feelings of inadequacy. Because, frankly, I have other priorities.
I enjoy writing. I also spend time connecting with my readers and fellow writers online. There are other activities I engage in as well, but my blog is a significant part of my life, and I indulge in it whole-heartedly.
Returning to the source of my frustration… With a beach towel in hand, my annoyed husband interrupted my writing with a few questions. Questions that, with my “wife radar,” I easily decoded: “How many towels do we have?” translates to “You’ve been home all day; why haven’t you put some clean towels in the cupboard?” And “Why aren’t there any clean towels?” means “You should be washing towels instead of lounging on your laptop.”
Does my husband deserve a clean towel? Absolutely. Will I respond to him about the towel shortage? Apparently. But I’ll do so with a touch of reluctance and a few choice words. Because, as much as our roles might seem traditional, my spirit recoils at being questioned over unfinished household duties.
Okay, yes, the towels are piling up. Would it kill him to use a beach towel, just this once?
So we argued. And went to bed angry.
The next morning (the morning of my toy demolition), I dropped the kids off at school and rushed home, fueled by rage. I was frustrated. Frustrated that I carry the weight of all the dirt and disorder. Angry that my husband was right; I wasn’t holding up my end of the deal.
It’s disheartening to realize that our current dynamic places me in a position of less power. No matter how fiery I feel or how strong-willed I am, the absence of my own income means I’m the one with the less authority in the relationship. Sure, my husband shares the “power” with me, and he does it well. He uses inclusive language; everything is “ours.” Most of the time, this arrangement works. My husband travels frequently, often with little notice, and we lack family support in our city. I’m the constant in our children’s lives. I’m the one who takes them to lessons and activities. It’s practical and convenient.
But sometimes, being the keeper of the towels feels overwhelming and even demeaning. The mess that accumulates around my family often feels like it’s solely my responsibility.
So, I took out my frustrations on a plastic toy and then cleaned up the aftermath. It was an undignified, first-world problem outburst, but in the end, my mind felt clearer. I won’t find fulfillment at the bottom of an empty laundry basket, but I do find it when my fingers dance across the keyboard. Writing nourishes my soul. I will cherish it and prioritize it. I might not win a Pulitzer for tales about my husband’s amusing habits or my quirky insights, but I am part of something meaningful. I belong to a vast sisterhood of moms, and I am one of its many voices.
If only writing paid better… Maybe I should craft the next great American novel. Yes! That’s the plan! I’ll make it big, and then I can say, “Honey, I’m swamped with work. We need to split the cleaning duties.” Personally, I find that idea very appealing.
But before I chase that masterpiece, I should probably tackle some towel folding first.
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Summary:
In this candid reflection, a housewife grapples with her dual identity as a homemaker and aspiring writer. After a moment of frustration over an overflowing laundry situation, she explores the complexities of domestic roles and the power dynamics within her marriage. Ultimately, she finds solace in writing and the community of mothers, while humorously contemplating the potential of a writing career that could change her domestic responsibilities.
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