Another two weeks just went by. I felt very accomplished when I published my last post one day early, on a Wednesday. Much less so when I let last week go by without posting at all. I guess consistency remains a struggle, what with the demands of motherhood, or what I make them to be. I have been reading and hearing a lot lately about the need for mothers to carve out some non-domestic time, be assertive in meeting their own needs and preserving their “unicorn space”. Which this blog is, for me. And of course, I wholeheartedly agree with all of this. And I have been grateful for those gentle reminders from the wonderful Dr. Becky, and others. Hers and other ladies’ podcasts quite simply keep me alive on rough days.
But for some reason, when in the thick of life, my children’s and family’s needs always end up coming first. It was easier to preserve my time and space when I was a teacher and my hours at work were non-negotiable. I just had to be there, even when one of the kids was sick, I was lucky enough to be able to count on an extraordinary caregiver that I still miss to this day. Now that I am home most of the time, trying to keep up with this blog and develop my coaching business (don’t ask me how I plan to articulate those two activities, I still do not know), my default mode, without me ever questioning it, remains to be fully available for my children.
This arrangement made sense when I first moved back to my hometown in Paris, after twenty years in New York. My oldest was about to turn fourteen and transitioning to a new school abroad was going to be challenging in the best of times. His sister was going into Sixth grade, another big transition even if she was fortunate enough to have close friends moving to France at the same time we did. And I had my two little boys to think about, without any help for the first few weeks. As our world was being turned upside down, there is no part of me that didn’t want to be here for them. Sure, I did get resentful when my husband had to fly to New York on a regular basis, leaving me with 100% of the housework and child rearing business. But generally, I fully accepted this situation, and saw it as a respite of sorts after two years of managing remote teaching, remote schooling, and the demands of raising a big brood, which was always challenging for the book worm and deep introvert that I am. It was going to be hard to be back home after twenty years. But I least I would give myself some time off. That was the thinking back then, and it still makes sense to me today. It has been eighteen months, however, and being “home” this long was never quite the plan. I am still enjoying the perks of this situation, to be perfectly honest, at least when the kids are off to school. It has been nice to be able to run and go to yoga weekly. To have an empty apartment all to myself for a few hours every day – making the weekend feel like a zoo, by comparison, but I’ve been around long enough to know that there is no such thing as free lunch. Weekends and 4-to-8-pm-freak-shows notwithstanding, I would say these quiet hours have been the most valuable aspect of my current stay-at-home situation, probably because after so many years with crying babies and toddlers around, I have finally been reconnecting with my inner only child, at least for a few hours a day.
But this quiet time comes at a price. Despite my best intentions, I still can’t quite treat it as work time. Which means that I find myself accepting that I should be in charge of the children when they get home and remain the one cooking dinner on weeknights. Not to mention cleaning up after everybody in the morning, and spending the first two of my lonely precious hours putting away butter and jams, airing out bedrooms, starting loads of laundry, and picking up underwear, toy cars and random candy wrappers from under beds (did I already tell you about my teenage daughter’s room? It’s THAT bad). When I look at my schedule from the outside, with a dispassionate eye, it does NOT look like a feminist queen’s schedule, ladies. Never in a million years would I have thought that I might someday find myself in this thoroughly lopsided, 1950’s-like situation. But here I am. And writing a food-oriented blog centered on motherhood, will certainly not make my situation any better in the eyes of the world.
As for my own eyes, I am embarrassed to say that I am not sure what to think anymore. I certainly find myself feeling resentful over this state of affairs, as my husband would be happy to tell you. And despite my best efforts at maintaining a cheerful, Julie Andrews-like graceful energy when we are all together, a good part of my weekends are spent complaining in my special passive-aggressive style, that nobody “around here” takes charge of meals or picks up their mess or will do anything about an overflowing laundry hamper. On the other hand, this new arrangement whereby I am my own boss and do not need to worry about an external schedule, suits me quite well. And I do enjoy cooking for my family, when I am not overwhelmed by the demands of motherhood – which is about 50 to 90% of the time, depending on the week you might ask me. When I hear my friends, or influential media figures, tell me that we, mothers, should all question our gendered roles and not let ourselves be thankful when our partners do what should just be their job, and not a favor they are doing us, I certainly agree, in principle. But I have yet to find a way to address these issues with my husband head-on, in a systematic manner, rather than trying to do tweaks here and there and ultimately feeling illegitimate in my demands as long as I do not have a full-time “traditional” work schedule. I do negotiate little things, and he does more than many fathers do. But I haven’t been able to have a conversation that would question the entire balance of our family life and the way we divide domestic labor. I hear these cards can be helpful, but I feel silly and awkward just mentioning them, knowing full well that I probably would never use them.
Anyway, the point is that I know I am not exactly the perfect feminist, for someone who ambitions to help women feel their strongest and their most inspired. And as I am writing this, I realize that trying to be myself is not so much about strength for me. I actually tend to recoil when I hear about “strong women”, or “empowered women”. As if it was a call to arms that I don’t feel inclined to answer from the inside. I personally feel my sturdiest when I feel aligned, coherent, quietly at peace with myself. From the inside it doesn’t feel like a battle at all. More like the silence of a morning sitting at my desk with a cup of tea. The right to be myself and do what makes me feel good inside, whatever the men, or the other women in my life, might think. It is not about wearing a tailored suit and fancy Louboutin pumps to make an impression in the board room. But having the luxury of not needing to impress anyone. I realize this might not resonate with many of you. And it does not mean that I am not genuinely impressed, and probably a little envious, if not frankly envious at times, of such women. But I also find myself exhausted by the “strong woman” ethics, which tend to make me feel like I am never quite strong enough, quite ambitious enough, not enough of a fighter. That I should win on every front and be at the top of the corporate ladder, while maintaining a sane household with six people in it. There might be a time when I will feel up for the challenge, but right now, it seems impossible to me.
And sure enough, my children just rang the bell. They are back from school already and I feel like I just sat down at my desk. I did get annoyed when they asked me why there was nothing for snack. I just yelled, in fact. I guess it is this time of day, which I have come to dread. The snacks, and the homework, and the piano lessons, and the bath, and dinner, and more homework for the high schooler who will be up until eleven tonight. While my husband is out of town. What was I saying about feminism?
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