I'm not Martha Stewart. I'm the first to admit it.
Right now, my job is being Becky Home Ecky and writing. I have the opportunity to be home with Mia, to put her on the bus in the morning, to pick her up after school. (The Hamilton SE School district only transports kindergartners one way, the most ridiculous thing I've come across in Indiana, other than not buying booze on Sundays.) I didn't get much of an opportunity to do that with my son; I was a single mother when he was born and went back to work when he was nine months old.
I do things like plan a week's worth of menus for dinner and organize my coupons. I use Real Simple's cleaning checklist to keep the house tidy. I do endless loads of laundry, which are the bane of my existence. I don't mind sorting the clothes, other than my husband's balled up socks, it's the folding and putting them away that stymies me. I loathe mopping floors.
Sometimes, I even bake. From scratch.
Twenty years ago, even ten, if you would have told me I'd be a housewife, I would have laughed myself silly. But here I am, and it's not so bad. I am glad to be able to do it. That also means living frugally, but I'm a pro at that. Will I be doing this ten years from now? That I don't know. Definitely not, if we could afford live in help at our oceanfront Bahamas home.
Hey, a girl can dream and if you're going to dream, dream big.