Diary of an Unlikely Housewife

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How can someone be an unlikely housewife? What does that mean, anyway? Well, for starters, you can be an unlikely anything. If you have never dreamed of becoming something, in fact maybe the thought horrified you or seemed so unlikely it made you laugh … and then it happened anyway, through unexpected circumstances! Then unlikely seems like a fitting adjective, doesn’t it? And if you really don’t have the qualities one expects from someone in that position/job/situation; if you are, in fact … let’s say, less than proficient (inept is such an ugly word!) at that job … well, unlikely starts sounding just about right, doesn’t it?

So there you have it. I’m an unlikely housewife. I never dreamt I would be, in fact it seemed absurd to think about—surely there were plenty of other things for me to do, weren’t there? Plus I’ve always been so messy, I mean seriously, majorly, almost scarily messy … My mom always thought I’d grow out of it. And yet, here I am, thirty-one, married for ten years, mother of two… still messy.

And should we talk about household chores? I mean, calling them chores is an understatement, isn’t it? The washing, the rinsing, the drying …  I despise it all, always have. And don’t even get me started on ironing!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete failure in the house: I happen to be a very good cook, even better than my mom in fact. But I hate to clean up after cooking. Ideally, I’d cook and someone else would clean up (wouldn’t that be great?).

You know, I have tried. Afterall, I have been married for ten years! Sure, I have made an effort to be good and keep it all clean and tidy, all on my own. Of course, being an all-or-nothing person, my goal each time was to become a home goddess, to be the new Mary Poppins in a way, “absolutely perfect in every way.” Yeah, right. Sooner or later it got right back to, “ok, I’m messy, why fight it? We should embrace who we are.” Zen? Or just pathetic?

So why am I at home? It’s simple: I have children, and I am an Italian mom at heart. My youngest is not even two, and for me to go to work and leave her with someone else is just unthinkable (well, not totally unthinkable, I do think about it sometimes). I would hate for someone else to witness all the “firsts” that happen in the first years of a child’s life: the first steps, the first words …

I did work part time for a while, when my oldest was about six. I worked two days a week, she was at school until 4 p.m. and then spent a couple of hours with her grandma when she got home, until I came home myself, around 7 p.m. But when I had my second, I decided to stay home again.

So here I am, fighting my instincts to run away from dirty dishes and dusty shelves … they say journaling is a great healing tool. I’m a bit of a geek, so blogging seems more appealing. Plus it’s much harder to misplace a desktop computer than a journal!


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