It’s another day in paradise, with the seasons passing the baton from winter to spring. The crocuses are up, the tulips are slowly emerging with their broad leaves, the usual abundance of winter babies are birthed, and the distinctive smell of manure is in the air – the Amish farmers are at it again with their spring fertilizing.
It seems as if the whole world is shaking and moving but me. Poor sad me stuck in the kitchen and dining room no matter the weather or season. Last year when President Bush and John Kerry were duking it out for our votes, where was I? In the kitchen, probably preparing one of the three meals of the day or doing dishes. And when gas prices slightly dipped a few cents, I was still in my kitchen cooking/cleaning something.
I know it’s cliche’ and old to be complaining about my duties to my family and responsibilities as a homemaker. But I do feel as though no matter what I do or accomplish in life or what goes on in this world, my family depends on the comfort of knowing that they can come home to good food cooked by me, and a plate to eat on cleaned by me – the essence of me.
Usually I don’t mind the tiresome task of endless cook and clean. I love my husband and the little ones and I am the homemaker – it states so on my tax forms. But, dog, can’t I get a break? And oh my word! Please cut me some mercy when the grub is late…or even not coming.
On my off days, like last week when everyday was a medical emergency or a scheduled doctor’s visit, I am too worn out and stretched thin to make meals. And those are the days when I live with the likes of Fred Flintstone, screaming and and hollering because food was late. I wish I could be as cool as Wilma and calmly explain to my Freds that the brontosaurus burger will be a little late and ditto for the swamp salad.
And even though I am not in the stone age and I do have the ease of modern appliances, I am not the only able bodied person with fingers. It’s funny how dinner decisions are solely my function, even when it comes to reheating frozen dinners in the microwave or toasting bread. I feel like Jane Jetson of the space age, singularly shouldering the responsibility of pressing the button of the meal machine to cook and set the table. It ain’t hard unless you are anybody but me.
Oh well, the silver-lining forecast predicts I will soldier on and take pride in my job because there is honor in all work. It’s all in the attitude.
All I request is to be recognized for my hard work and dedication. So when I die, I want a tombstone over my head that states: Here lies Dishes and Food.