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Broke Wife, Big City
I’m wearing
these yoga pants ironically
By Aprill Brandon
It’s no secret that when you become a mom, you go through a bit of an
identity crisis. It can be hard to remember who you were when it feels
like who you are now is someone who spends all of her time cleaning up
mystery stains. Is that poop or chocolate? Apple juice or pee? I used
to be on a first name basis with the mayor and win journalism awards.
Cottage cheese or vomit?
Which is why these days I always dread the moment when someone asks me
“so, what do you do?”
And they always ask it. Always. Because we are Americans and as
Americans we need to immediately know what you do with your life so we
can then determine how harshly to judge you.
God bless the U.S.A.
I didn’t always hate this quirk of American society. I proudly declared
“journalist” for a long time. I worked hard to become a journalist. I
loved being a journalist. It was a badge I wore with honor.
But the waters muddied a bit when my husband and I moved to Boston.
Unable to get a full-time job in my field, I started working from home,
writing a regular column for a handful of different newspapers and
websites. I’d also occasionally take on a freelance writing project.
So, I told people I was a “freelance writer.” But since that wasn’t as
clear cut as “journalist,” I’d have to describe what that entailed and
watch as people’s eyes slowly glassed over because they were just being
polite and oh, is that Susan over there? I should go say hello. Nice
talking to you, Amy, was it?
And then we had kids and the waters got downright murky. Because now my
main job was keeping those two suicidal lunatics alive while trying to
squeeze in some writing time on the weekends.
“But I’m still a writer!” I’d practically scream at people, less they
be confused as to my real identity. Sure, “technically” I stayed home
and “raised” my children, but that didn’t make me, you know, a “mom.”
It’s more like a hobby, really. I’m wearing these yoga pants ironically!
It took me awhile, but I finally realized why this stressed me out so
much. The current language we have for women without a clear cut “job”
is awful. Take the word “housewife.” I hate that word. I didn’t marry
my house. I mean, that thing is filthy. Even if it proposed, I’d
politely decline and then hand it a broom and whisper “I think you know
why.” (And “homemaker” is even worse. Especially if you have kids.
Because when you have kids, you aren’t “making” a “home” so much as you
are trying to prevent said kids from burning it down to the ground).
I also loathe the term “stay-at-home mom.” I don’t stay at home. No mom
does. We’re constantly lugging those adorable damn kids everywhere. And
yet, no one refers to us as Playground-Library-Gas
Station-Coffeeshop-Liquor Store moms.
And yet, those are the terms we are stuck with if we are the ones
primarily taking care of the domestic side of life (and fellas, I
haven’t forgotten about you; “househusband” and “stay-at-home dad,”
even when used tongue-in-cheek, is equally inaccurate and ridiculous).
Can you imagine if we referred to everyone by their most common
location and their role in the family? Oh hey, let me introduce you to
my other half, Ryan. He’s an office husband.
Or, hey, nice to see you, Sheryl, I’d like you to meet my bar grandpa.
This is Lila, my stay-at-the-yoga-studio sister-in-law.
My crackhouse cousin had a rough upbringing, what with being raised by
my prison uncle and my motel aunt.
Why yes, I have two teenagers, a couch son and a Burger King parking
lot daughter.
You get the picture.
Why do we still use these terms? Even “working mom” is a bit of a
misnomer. No one calls my husband a “working dad.” He’s a graphic
designer. Who happens to have kids.
And I wouldn’t even care about how inaccurate the current words are
that we use to describe women who deal in the domestic arts, except for
the fact that they have a faint whiff of negativity surrounding them.
Housewives are considered vapid or desperate or gold diggers.
Stay-at-home moms are boring or unambitious or lazy. Homemakers are
busy wearing gingham dresses and churning butter in the corner of the
kitchen.
So, it’s time we start changing these outdated and, quite frankly,
unfair titles. I haven’t come up with the new terms just yet (what with
spending all my time sniffing mystery stains and all) but maybe
something like “I parent full time” or “I’m a professional mom” or “I’m
my toddler’s juice bitch.”
Or hell, maybe I’ll just take a page from Tyrion Lannister and when
people ask me what I do, I’ll coolly respond “I drink, and I know
things.”
Because at least half of that is completely accurate.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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