My gawd, I can’t even imagine what my great-grandmother did before washing
machines were invented. I turn, pour my husband a cup of coffee, add two teaspoons
of sugar, and pop a bagel into the toaster for his breakfast.
Was there ever a time when it was simple to be a woman?
Was it easier back in the day when men were men and women were women and
everyone knew their place? I doubt that made it any simpler. At least I hope it didn’t
because if their lives were simpler, better, more productive than ours are today, what
was the point of struggling for feminism and equality?
It doesn’t always feel like it made women’s lives better. It feels like more pressure,
more stress, and more responsibilities. It also feels like something is missing. Like this
can’t be all there is to life? Like it’s all one big revolving wheel that goes nowhere.
I’ve lled the dishwasher and am just turning it on when I feel his strong arms wrap
around me from behind kissing my neck. I turn with his mug in hand.
“Your coffee, kind sir.”
“Sugar?”
I look at him, shake my head, and turn to butter his bagel.
“Gus and Rose’s place Sunday afternoon?” He asks and I nod. “Girls’ night after?” I
nod again. “And I’m stuck babysitting?”
“Parenting dear. It’s called parenting when the kids are yours.”
“Are you sure they’re mine.”
“Positive.”
That’s a typical morning. Every day it’s the same. A chore I forgot to do, my
husband swooping in to x things, my kids needing something or disapproving of
something I did or didn’t do. Each day is pretty much the same; chores, kids, work,
bed. Always the same. Perfectly the same. Perfect. The perfect life.
I am forty years old. I have a wonderful, loving husband, two well-adjusted kids, a
gorgeous home in a suburban neighbourhood, and a career. I have a good life and I feel
like I am missing something, like I’ve forgotten something, done something wrong.