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Welcome to the
APeeling Experience

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“Mom where are my shirts?”
“Shirts? In your closet?”
“No.”
“Folded in a basket?”
“No.”
“Damn. Are you sure?”
“Ya. Never mind I found them.”
“Where?”
“Wet and stinky in the washing machine. When did you wash them?”
I try to think. I can’t really remember when I did.
“Uhm. Do you have a dirty one that you can wear?”
Sending my daughter to school in dirty clothes, what would my mother say? Thing
is I know exactly what she’d say, she told me just last week.
“You just need to do things during work breaks. You work from home, how hard
can it be to stop, take a break, switch out the laundry, do a load of dishes, sweep the
oor, then go back to work?”
It is a good question. I generally don’t take breaks and if I do, I’m surng the
net or checking my social media. I don’t really think to do the laundry. Hence my
daughter yelling at me about how hard done by she is because she has to wear a shirt
she already wore to school. Heaven help us, what will the kids think? What will her
teachers think? Will they call social services if her shirt gets dirty enough?
My husband comes down to save the day. He does this a lot. He’d grabs a couple
of clean shirts, that she doesn’t like, out of her dresser, walks into the kitchen and says,
“Your choice the dirty one, one of these, a smelly one, or you could just go in your
bra. Up to you.”
I choke on my coffee. ‘And if she’d chosen to go in her bra, then what?’ She
doesn’t. She just says Daaaad in that oh you’re so embarrassing way teen girls have
and grabs a clean one out of his hand.
“I’ll go run the load in the washer, pour me a cup of coffee for when I get back,” he
says and disappears into the laundry room.

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.

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