You’re not the boss of me.

My sister Birdie and I were having a conversation about our lives being at home with the kids.  Then she asks me:

“Do other women get, I don’t know, weird, when you tell them you’re a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom)?


“Like, the time one of my friend’s friends told me that being a SAHM was a waste of my education and women died in the sixties for me to be able to work or something like that?”

“Not anymore. Wait, did she say died?”

“Not really.  But that was how she was acting.  She was foaming at the mouth and pointing and everything.”

“What did you do?”

“I left.  The only other option was a roundhouse kick to the face.”

I know it's not a roundhouse kick to the face. But it IS Van Damme.  You're welcome.
I know it’s not a roundhouse kick to the face. But it IS Van Damme. You’re welcome.

Ya’ll, I have been in that position before.  No Bueno.  I don’t get it.  You know why?  Because for some reason, I had this silly notion that staying home with my kids was a choice.  Can I tell you guys something?  I have never, EVER in my life heard a man yell at another man for being a SAHD.  NEVER.  I have heard men say, “That’s cool, man.  I could never do it, though. How’s your Fantasy NASCAR coming?”  (Which is how I found out Fantasy NASCAR is a thing.) That was it.  No berating about how he is wasting his life and education.  And I get it, the fact is that men have always had options that women didn’t have.  (BTW, you should see how the women at the park act over the SAHDs.  Why does it seem like the SAHD is instantly hot, but the SAHM is a frumpy housewife?  Well, guess what, SAHM can also stand for Sexy As Heck Mom.  How about that?)

But, um, wasn’t the point of women’s liberation to have a choice? Maybe not, I don’t know.  And I’m going to be dead honest–I don’t know because at this time in my life, I don’t particularly care.  I do know two things.

1.) I can do whatever the green beans I want with my life.  I can move to Vegas and become the world’s most stretch-marked showgirl.  I can try out the hobo life; this city has plenty of bridges to sleep under.  I can write the Great American Novel.  What I decided to do was be here with my children.  I happen to like them and I think they like me.  Or they fake it to get fed.  Either way, my husband didn’t force me to be the little wife in the kitchen. As my physique shows, I don’t really mind being in the kitchen.

2.) My daughter is also well aware that she can do whatever the green beans SHE wants to do with her life.  She’s not looking at me and thinking that she has to do what I do.  Wondergirl is even sure that she wants to get married. That may change–she’s only ten.  She wants to own a salon and spa.  I personally see mercenary in her future, but I like the idea of free facials. Maybe her salon will be her cover.

Anyway, I just had to get that off my chest.  Let me get off this soapbox before I fall.  I have to go break up a fight, anyway. You know, because Wondergirl is also confident she can bet the crap out of any boy, even though her mom is just a lil’ ol housewife.