I’m a 1950’s style homemaker. I cook, clean, bake, sew, clean, do a majority of child rearing…
But my job is easy.
I know many say that being a stay at home mother is the “hardest job ever” but it’s not. Let’s be real.
I don’t answer to a boss outside of my Husband. I wear what I want (okay, sometimes what He wants), go to the gym leisurely every day, volunteer my time, enjoy my children. If on a whim I want to head to the beach I do just that.
The unsung hero of the home is our Head of Household, my dear Husband, MR.
He works not for one person or two but four. Everything we need He provides. Everything we want He considers. Invents money, pays bills, saves for retirement and college and vacations and emergencies all on His own.
Dresses for the business world while i dilly dally in yoga pants and a tee every day. Is out the door by eight while Mickey Mouse Clubhouse plays in the background. Answering to a boss. Dealing with the public. 12 hour days. Two hour commutes. Sack lunches. Late appointments. Days like today; horribly frustrating, ridiculously long.
And He does it all because of a dream shared by us both. The dream of the past when a woman can stay home and happily tend to her house and husband; the dream which requires a tough, diligent, committed, dominant man to go out and work hard for His family.
If you were to ask Him, He’d say my job is the harder. But the lady of this household must insist: He is the sun, and we all just revolve around Him.
He is our everything. And we are lucky as Hell to have Him.