My Name isn’t Rosie

My Mother, (I say ‘Mother’ whenever I am psychoanalyzing the effects of her parenting; otherwise it’s just ‘Mom’), says that I should knock off the bullshit, (she doesn’t curse; I added for the effect), of trying to be Super Woman – less I suffer burn-out.

She’s right. I have a few girlfriends who will simply allow (or demand – haven’t figured it out yet), that their husbands take care of everything, baby them, do the whole my-wife-is-a-queen thing. When I see that, I wanna puke. I mean, really? You can’t handle life? You can’t juggle working, kids, housework, bills AND looking fabulous? Jeesh! I CAN and DO!

See that’s my arrogant rant. The one that happens around 7pm when I get on Facebook & read others’ posts while my 18 month old is screaming on the floor, my six year old is jumping on the couch with our 80 lbs dog, and my husband is at work. Yea, I feel envy.

The thing is, these women might be onto something. Why must we ‘do it all’? ‘Rosie the Riveter’ depicts the image of woman who will do what she has to do AND look gorgeous doing it. Well, my man ain’t at war. He’s right here, except the 40 + hours he’s away at work a week, (yes, I keep him a prisoner). So why do I still have this, ‘give me the damn broom – I’ll sweep the floor myself’ attitude?

Here’s where I pick an issue that pisses me off, analyze why, then come up with a ‘I have no f’n clue; I’ll figure it out later’. Ya know, when I’m enjoying a quiet cup of chamomile tea this evening whilst my well-behaved children read books quietly on the couch and my blue pit suddenly lost use of his barking abilities.

But as a means of distraction, something so tiny happened this morning, which inexplicably de-grumped my said irritation with the Pampered Wife. I was outside helping with our front patio. I started cleaning up old rocks, and Eddie, my tough-ass husband – 



who doesn’t seem to understand what living with three females means….said,

‘Babe, do you want a pair of gloves’? I nearly fell over. So he didn’t expect his wife to pick the rocks up bare-handed? Not that I had a manicure to preserve or anything, but…I didn’t think twice about protecting my feminine little petite hands. I stuttered, ‘Um, yes please’.

Such a small gesture, and one he’ll no doubt laugh about when he reads this. It reminded me that I CAN be capable AND a lady. I don’t have to do-all, be-all. Who am I trying to impress? No one likes a martyr.

So, why, yes, I’ll wear gloves when doing yard work. Why yes, I would like to sit on my bum while you mow the lawn. Why yes, I’ll remember to take care of myself and that my bad-ass husband DOES see that I’m a girl, after all. ❤

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