Posted in Motherhood, Parenting, Relationship

When A Woman Loves Her Man, Her Son and Her Job – All At The Same Time

I don’t think there is a more challenging time to be a woman than it is now.

I mean sure there was that witch-hunt thing that lasted for centuries around 1480 until 1700 that killed up to an estimated 40,000 to 100,000 women simply because they menstruate and bear children, or the fact that women was only acknowledge as a human and not a sex object when they were first given rights to vote in 1906.

But women back then (or at least I think so) had less to deal with then now.

Of course they had it tougher to live considering the fact that being a woman in itself is already a sin back then and doing what you want while condoning the culture then practically means suicide; but they don’t have to deal with all the juggling between household chores, or taking care of the husband while still expected to keep the house like a Ritz when you come back from work. If you are Marie Curie, you just concentrate on doing the things in the lab. Or if you are Emily Bronte, you just have to concentrate on writing dull, long winded novels about unrequited love.

But if you a working woman now. It’s a whole different era you are talking about.

Let’s not talk about hot-shot women who drives a 7series Beemer and carries 3 BlackBerry because these women are something else. They probably have maids for every single thing from picking up the Stuart Wizeman shoes they left at the porch to the washing the coffee mug in the sink to picking up the kids from kindie to puffing up their pillows before they go to bed. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating because maybe they are able to do things on their own but when you work 170 hours a week and busier than Obama and earn as  much as him, wouldn’t you think they would get maids for everything?

Let’s talk about a mediocre career like a teacher (although that is a very noble career because it is harder to be a teacher now that it is say, 3 decades ago but let’s not get to that because I can write a whole blog on that and this blog is not about that right now), or a bank officer or an event coordinator or a sales manager – all those work that pays the bills but isn’t exactly a Carrie Bradshaw kind of career (although I must say, I don’t really know what she is doing exactly).

It is a sad and heart wrenching moment when you leave for work in the morning while having to look at your son’s pleading face even though he is all smiling and laughing when you kiss him goodbye. You know that you have to stay with him because you are a mother for God’s sake. What good is a mother when she can’t be with her son to watch him grow? But you got that little mouth to feed and how on Earth did things get so expensive lately? You just need money for everything and you can’t afford to let your son starve or miss out on the good things in life.

Then you come home, feeling somewhat accomplished with whatever it is you’ve done at work and while you are locking the car and walking towards the front door, you know there is a pile of laundry waiting, a dinner to be cooked before your husband comes home and your son waiting to jump on you like a love stricken puppy. It’s a cruel mix feeling because all you want is to curl up in bed under the covers and wriggle your toes because the damn Vinnci shoes were killing your feet the whole day.

But you are a working woman, a wife and a mother. You gotta do the first things first.

But sometimes it hits you in the face, thinking, which one is first anyway? Do I cook dinner first and the laundry later? Do I put my son to bed first just so that I can do the housework because the floor is dusty and the trash is piling up? But if I put him to sleep, I won’t be able to spend time with him and learn what he has been waiting to tell me the whole day.

Then there is the husband. You know you have to feed him because no matter how much he loves the curry house near his office, he would prefer to come home and eat what you cooked. You have to smell good and look fresh when he comes home so that he feels like it is a home and not a madhouse. You have to make sure the room is clean and all pretty with nice sheets and rose smelling decanters to calm him before he goes to sleep.

There are so many things you want to do that sometimes you wish you don’t have to do anything. But when you stopped and pretend as though you don’t need to do all these, your house goes topsy turvy – the clean laundry is on the dining table because you were rushing to bring it in before it started raining and then you forgot to bring it into the room because your son just spilled his orange juice all over the floor and by the time you get the cloth to wipe it, you remembered there is dinner on the stove threatening to become muck in 5 seconds time and before you know it the husband walked into the living room with a raised eyebrow and hint of sarcasm on his lips.

When did life become so complicated? Why can’t we do the things we love and do it all day without feeling guilty of not being able to split the bills with him? I know God won’t give me things to handle if He thinks I can’t handle it. If God can believe in me, why can’t I believe in myself that I can do this? Why do I feel like I need to break down and wish everything would go away so that all I have is Mohen and Eros and my kitchen and my living room?

Sometimes I feel to make things worse, is when I realize how much I love my job, how much I love doing what I do because I’m good at it. And I know I like what I do because of it, not because how much it pays me (which of course, is chickenfeed). I feel guilty for being at work because I felt that I am neglecting my son and my home. But when I at home, I feel like if I were to do this all day, it would entirely be on Mohen to pay all the bills and I just can’t let happen that because it’s our lives together. We are supposed to share everything.

Perhaps I shouldn’t think so much about it. If those women in the 15th century can survive, I should be able to as well.

Plus, I get to do this all over again tomorrow.

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Author:

A feminist mother of 3 who thinks she can write.

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