How I Built My Life: The Reflections of a Housewife (PG)

Okay: normally, I would save this until Sunday, but I honestly can't wait to share this piece with you all. It's basically my response to an article I encountered in which the writer decided to get a divorce to find herself because -- she didn't like the crumbs in her house? Or something? She never really made it clear. 

At any rate, borrowing heavily from the experiences of people I know (while changing details to protect the innocent), I've penned something that mimics the style of the aforementioned essay while telling, I think, a deeper - and much less narcissistic - story. Hope you enjoy!

How I Built My Life

The Reflections of a Housewife

That damned cornice! I’d spent hours nailing the plywood together - and more hours still covering it with the rose damask I’d so carefully selected - yet the mounting was not quite going to plan. Actually, to be more frank, the mounting was evolving into an outright disaster. For some reason, the wall above the living room window would not hold the hardware on one side. As flecks of plaster rained down from above and lightly dusted my hair, I let loose with the filthiest string of profanities I could possibly muster.

“You forgot ‘piss,’” my seven-year-old son brightly noted.

“And ‘damn,” added his older sister.

Right. I’d forgotten they were in the room. A real mother-of-the-year move there, Annora. And when exactly did our children learn to curse like sailors? I’m pretty sure I didn’t intend for that to happen. I’m pretty sure my goal was to raise children with exquisite, Emily-Post-worthy manners.

*****

I once had a lot of goals — though I’m not really sure all of them were truly mine. In junior high, I discovered a gift for languages, so I decided to pursue a career as a military linguist. But this, I think, was my father’s goal and not my own. My immediate relatives had served in the Navy for generations, and Dad had always envisioned his own children plying the family trade. And if you think my being a girl dissuaded him, well — let’s just say you have another think coming. Strangely enough, he was perfectly egalitarian in his overbearing expectations — especially after my brother died.

I also dreamed, in secret, of going to art school. This, I believe, came from the real me. I had a knack for picking up foreign tongues, but said talent was far outclassed by my inborn artistic eye. I was winning quilting and sewing competitions before I learned to drive, and earning ribbons for my floral arrangements not long after. At eighteen, I was secretary of the Granger FHA — a confirmed domestic goddess and top-flight wife material. Right then, I could’ve found myself a man and left the public world behind. So what stopped me? Well, the women’s lib movement was in full swing by the time I graduated from high school. Between that and my Dad, it seemed somehow more - acceptable - to be a pioneer — to grab at a chance to be one of the “first women who [X].” And so I became one of the first women admitted to Annapolis. 

And my other aspirations? Well, sometimes I imagined using my talents to design a line of clothing for real, living women whose bodies were like mine: curvy, soft, and not six feet tall. Sometimes I imagined designing costumes for the Broadway stage — and maybe, at the pinnacle of my career, winning a Tony Award for my efforts. And sometimes I wanted to study math and medicine too; my mind, after all, had always been a lively thing.

Art school happened in time once my children were grown. But everything else was left by the wayside, pushed into the corners where my free time dwelled. That, I suppose, is the reality of being. Eventually - if you’re going to build a life that’s really worth something - you have to choose one main road - one central goal - and allow other turns to recede in the rearview mirror.

My vocation, it appears, was to be a housewife. 

*****

It was a geeky, gangly firstie who ruined me for the "free" and "empowered" life. I met him when I got involved with the Masqueraders, and I was instantly smitten with his peach fuzz, his skinny neck, his thick glasses — and his kindness. His kindness made up for a multitude of minor faults. My future husband wanted to be a nuke because he was too blind to be a pilot or an astronaut. And he was freakishly smart, too. He hardly ever studied, and yet he somehow got away with it every time.

The bastard.

God, I loved him. I loved him enough to quit the Naval Academy after my plebe year, become Annora Smith nee Fischer, and follow that man to his first post — and to twenty years of posts thereafter.

*****

For the first decades of our marriage, we were positively Heinleinian — the Rolling Smiths. Fulfilling the old saying, we gathered no moss — but our furniture accumulated the Navy’s multicolored moving stickers on virtually every unseen surface. Each new house brought new challenges: the aforementioned cornice that kicked my ass in Bremerton; the army of carpenter ants that overwhelmed our split-level ranch in New London and devoured both our wooden siding and our savings; the slipshod construction of our supposedly brand new townhome in Northern Virginia; and other hassles I dare not list for fear of boring you with the grisly details. And more than half the time, these were challenges I had to address on my own. There was very little my husband could do while his boats were patrolling the Arctic — or crossing the Panama Canal.

If I said I was happy to be separated from my husband for months at a stretch, I’d be lying. Back then, there was no internet and no video chats. Bob could only call me when he surfaced, and we could never talk for very long. And that, in the end, is what drove my decision to get pregnant for the first time: loneliness. A heavy, tangible loneliness.

“Bob,” I said one night when my husband was at home,”I want a kitty.”

 
“A kitty?” Bob favored me with an amused look. “Well, normally I’d say yes, but I’m about to be reassigned. A kitty would probably be too hard to move.”

“Then I want a baby.”

My logic there was bulletproof. A baby would be company — and as long as it was gestating, moving wouldn’t be an issue. So Bob agreed. And I don’t think he did so simply to have some fun; I think he actually wanted to be a father. When he was on shore, he was never absent.

*****

I love cats. I always have. They’re adorable, they’re funny, and as far as I’m concerned, their purring should be bottled somehow and sold as a new anti-anxiety drug. Throughout the years, a parade of cats were welcomed into our various homes to live their simple lives in abundance and comfort. Indeed, I spoiled all our cats rotten. Their toys were as omnipresent as my daughter’s My Little Ponies or my son’s Legos.

But no cat, no matter how clever or beloved, can take the place of my children. I don’t know that I had my daughter - and then my son two years later - for the right reasons; I do know that I don’t resent their existence in the slightest.

If I had never had children, there are certain sorrows I never would’ve felt. I never would’ve known, for example, the sheer horror of learning that something was wrong with my infant son. The pediatrician thought he was brain-damaged at first; then a more savvy specialist concluded that he was simply blind. And during the months in between, I suffered a kind of grief — not because I wasn’t absolutely ready to give my child the very best no matter his condition but because it demanded I adjust hopes I didn’t even know I had.

Concussions, broken bones, high fevers, and lots and lots of stitches — I had to worry through all of these. And on top of that, my oldest was mercurial and had a tendency to wander. One afternoon in the early 90’s, I spent several hours frantically looking for my daughter on base before my mother spotted her in the stands at a Little League game. Let’s just say I did not respond to this experience with flawless equanimity.

But without all these troubles, I never would’ve experienced the joys of popcorn chains and messy sugar cookies on Christmas Eve. Or the pride I felt when my daughter’s team won first prize at the local Odyssey of the Mind competition — or when, later, she was crowned Biology Student of the Year. Or the elation I felt when my son received his acceptance letter for the local magnet school, beating odds that were stacked against him.

There’s nothing like raising two unique little human beings. Nothing like teaching them their times tables. Nothing like reading to them in the evening — or listening to them read out loud on their own. Having kids allows you to experience the world anew. You once again start appreciating the things you were starting to take for granted, like the reckless abandon of a snow day in the winter or a crashing thunderstorm in the middle of July.

*****

After I became a mother, there were many things I lost. For one thing, I was no longer conventionally attractive. My baby weight stuck around. Cellulite and stretch marks marred my formerly smooth thighs. My once perky breasts swelled and drooped. And thanks to years of sessions cutting out fabric to make dresses and suits for various picture days - or costumes for countless school plays - I grew stoop-shouldered. Sometimes, I hated how I looked. Sometimes, I wanted to trade my body in for a newer model. But I knew those flights of fancy were silly; that reflection I saw in the mirror every morning was unmistakably mine — and in the end, it was its own kind of beautiful.

Secondly, once we had children, our time and our money were never completely our own. True, Bob and I always made sure to refresh our relationship on a regular basis with planned date nights and conversations - or sex - over Letterman. But sometimes, that new car had to wait until after our kids’ braces — or that cruise had to wait until after our share of our kids’ college tuition had been paid. The compromises were daily; the sacrifice, ongoing. 

*****

Sacrifice was the central feature of my motherhood. It was also the central feature of my marriage. While Bob was on active duty, I was forced to uproot my entire life on a roughly biennial basis, leaving behind local friends and - on a few occasions, when my kids were older - the odd part-time job. But Bob made sacrifices too. He could’ve risen higher - been promoted faster - if he hadn’t put his foot down at times for our benefit. And his jobs - both military and civilian - demanded hard work and long hours — which ultimately impacted his health for the worse.

Bob and I didn’t have the same tastes in entertainment. We didn’t always agree on how best to raise our children. And our extended family cultures were radically different. The Fischers were disciplined folks; the Smiths were the earthy, raucous sort. On the one hand, I’d teach my kids how to say “please” and “thank you” and how not talk with their mouths full; on the other hand, Bob would crack risque jokes at the dinner table and, on one notorious occasion, teach my son how to pick his nose and eat it.

 
And yes: Bob and I fought sometimes. Who doesn’t? It’s hard for any two people to share space - to negotiate the daily minutiae - without quarreling over, say, socks left on the floor or the best way to convince a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner to cooperate. 

One day, after one such spat, my son asked me a disturbing question: “Are you and Dad gonna get divorced?”

“No, honey. Why do you ask?”

“I heard you yelling from my room. Tommy’s parents yelled a lot before they got divorced. And Matt’s parents did too.”

“Oh.”

And then I spent the next ten minutes reassuring our little boy that Bob and I still loved each other, that none of our fights were important enough to break up our family over, and that I couldn’t imagine not being married to his father for the rest of our natural lives.

I meant every word.

*****

That’s not to say I never thought about the what-ifs. What if I’d never met Bob? What if I’d graduated from the Naval Academy? What if I hadn’t tied myself down with those wedding vows and, unencumbered, chased after all my youthful desires? 

Well, I would’ve had a cleaner house, for one. While raising our kids, I fought a constant - and losing - battle against dirt and grime. Sometimes, it was mud our kids - or our cats - tracked into the foyer. Sometimes it was crayon - or unmentionable body fluids - that decorated the walls. Sometimes it was stained underwear that needed a spot-clean before being dumped in the washer with the rest of the whites. And once, it was an entire bottle of maple syrup my son spilled on the kitchen floor while he was trying to cook his own Eggos. (After that incident, the linoleum was tacky for weeks despite my best efforts.)

“Dull women have immaculate homes.” When I saw that sign for sale at one of my local haunts, I snatched it up at once. I read interior design magazines at times when I was especially bored, but I knew my house would never achieve the glossy sophistication of the rooms that graced those covers. And as much fun as it was to entertain pipe dreams while sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, I didn’t really care that our abode wasn’t stylish. There were more important things on my mind.

*****

Of course, our children eventually moved away and established households of our own. But this transition in our circumstances did not occasion shouts of joy — or exultant celebrations of my so-called “freedom.” I didn’t go to art school to demonstrate my emancipation. I did so simply to fill my time — to beat back a new loneliness that echoed through our suddenly empty home.

Then I started a new business making formalwear for upwardly-mobile women seeking one-of-a-kind pieces that couldn’t be purchased at their favorite boutiques. One client was a high-powered corporate lawyer - just about my age - who was rich enough to bankroll a trip to New York’s Garment District, where the very best fabrics could be purchased at eye-popping prices. That lady’s commission terrified me, truth be told. The entire time, I prayed my old Singer wouldn’t give up the ghost and wreck the beautiful lace she’d selected for her wedding gown.

Funny thing: I also made a christening gown for her only child a few years later. The poor woman apparently had to go through several rounds of fertility treatments before she successfully conceived. The whole process sounded ghastly to me. It made me thankful I had my kids when I was young and stupid.

*****

Bob and I settled into a new routine. We took a few trips, visited the national parks out west, and even went to the 2004 Olympics in Athens. The kids continued to float in and out of our lives, stopping by for holidays, birthdays, and summer sojourns. And my work as a seamstress was steady and brought in a respectable - if not spectacular - sum.

Then, in his early 60’s, Bob had his first stroke. And then he had a second. And then he was too weak to care for himself without help. My business was forgotten. Instead of sewing, I was going to medical appointments, changing soiled diapers, and helping my husband take showers on alternate days. 

I know those years were hard for Bob. Like most men, he prided himself on caring for his family. He absolutely hated that he was now dependent on me (and on the visiting nurses). And sometimes, that made him cross. Sometimes, his frustrations would be lobbed my way. Don’t misunderstand: he never, ever hurt me. But sometimes, he groused about my more cautious style of driving — or complained that I wasn’t cooking a particular meal exactly the way he would if he could only walk. (Yes, Bob could cook. His meals were generally simpler than mine, but he was happy to contribute.) He was still, for the most part, the same intelligent, compassionate man I married. But he was also in pain — and pain beats down even the greatest souls.

*****

“Life is suffering.” My daughter listens to a commentator on YouTube who says that over and over. I’m not sure why that has catapulted said gentleman to international stardom. To me, that seems like simple common sense — especially on a day like today.

It’s two in the morning. I don’t normally stay up this late, but I can’t sleep. Not in a half-empty bed. Not on the night after my husband’s burial. So I’m sitting up at Bob’s old roll top desk to write all this out in my neat, flowing cursive. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. I doubt anyone would be interested in publishing some plain old crone’s scribblings. Featured pieces in magazines are usually reserved for women who’ve eschewed the traditional family life in favor of “confronting the world directly” and “finding oneself” (whatever those things mean).

Tomorrow, I’m going to be smacked with the thousand little things I have to sort out as the executor of Bob’s estate. Tomorrow, my daughter is coming over to help clean out her father’s closet. It will hurt. I will probably cry more than once. 

My life so far has been a quiet one. Unnoticed. Unrenowned. Shot through with heartache. Constrained by a web of obligations to others; fenced on all sides by responsibility. The 21st century commentariat will never look upon me and say, “Now there is a strong, inspiring, self-actualized woman!”  But when all is said and done, I don’t feel real regret for the choices I’ve made — even if they did make me unfit for fame and fortune.

Somebody - I don’t know who - once observed that there are two important days in a person’s life: the day she is born, and the day she finds out why. Well, I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I think I’ve fulfilled my why. 

My why is bound up with the ordinary. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.