Elegy for a Housewife

By: Victoria Smith

 

When I am gone—
no songs shall be sung,
nor passionate speech extol
this solitary life
lived for others,
buried and forgotten
by all.

Poet’s Notes. I’m reading M.M. Kaye’s epic novel, “The Far Pavilions”, at this time, and came to this statement by the novel’s hero: “The years had gone so fast . . . so fast.” And there, for a while, I lingered, agreeing with, and compelled to refl ect upon this otherwise overstated cliché, seeing it in the light of the nuances of my personal experience. I thought about how funny it was that when I was a child, a year, a month, a week, indeed—even a day, seemed so long. I had spent many a Christmas Day lamenting how next Christmas was an awfully long 365 days away! Contrast that now with how I, at middle age, lament how a year feels like a mere blink of an eye, and how my children grew too fast . . . too fast. I wish I could bring back those years when they were infants, toddlers, and schoolchildren so I could enjoy my children more fully—for those were years I’d regrettably spent focused, it felt like, on merely rushing from one chore to another: feeding, bathing, dressing them; driving them to, and picking them up from school, and in between: doing groceries and cooking; washing endless dishes and clothes; and cleaning as much of the house as I could, before I then had to pick up them up from school, only to drive them again to, and pick them up from an infi nite variety of activities that ranged from arts and music lessons, sports games, birthday parties, playdates, and recitals. I remember those years now mostly as one, big blur—a fog that took away my children and my youth, and along with the latter, some of my dreams.

Thank God for Sear’s portraits—for they’re practically all that remain as indelible proofs of those years! I amaze myself in realizing that, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle of my life as a young mother and housewife, I apparently had enough wisdom, foresight, and discipline to pause our busy life as a family and corral husband and children to the nearest mall photo studio, while withstanding much whining—justifi ed, I’m sure, on the part of the little ones who complained that their dress-up clothes were too scratchy, tight, loose, or uncomfortable and unacceptable in some other way, and often, during the freezing climates of November and December, just so we could double purpose those family photos as our holiday greeting cards.

It was during one of those years that I wrote above poem. At the time, my frustrations at what I saw as my inadequacies as a mother led me to think of my own mother, wondering how she did all that I was doing then and more—and not just for a couple of kids like I had, but for ten who’d ranged in age from infancy to the teens! Unlike me, my mother got married relatively young, at 24, barely out of college, before she gave birth to me the year after, and like clockwork, to a new baby every other year thereafter. (Yes, my parents were staunch, conservative Catholics.) She thus did not have any career apart from mother and housewife, nor did she have much of any kind of life outside the home. The poem above was my way, albeit by way of satire, of recognizing and thanking her for all her sacrifi ces as a housewife and mother. Now that she is gone, it remains my tribute to her, as I remember her on All Saints’ Day every November 1st.

While I’m also thankful that, unlike my mother, I’d at least experienced how it was to have a profession (as a lawyer) outside the home that enabled me to enjoy earning my own money (and some freedoms this gave me) before I got married, this gratitude did not stop me from regretting the fact that despite having trained and expended precious time and resources to achieve a profession outside the home, having kids did tie me down to the home eventually. And although it’s true I always say it was my choice to stay at home to raise my children, it’s also true that at that time there really was no other reasonable choice for me (based on our family circumstances and resources then)—if I were to be a good mom, that is, or so I thought.

I resented and railed against the myth propagated to us young women in the 80’s that a woman could have it all: a great career and a wonderful family at the same time. It wasn’t true then, and it isn’t true now. Something always has to give, and some heavy sacrifi ces have to be made—usually on the part of the woman—to have either one or the other. And some of those sacrifi ces were far too dear for one choice versus the other. Thus, like a good soldier, I fell in line and did my duty. This was what I did, and what my mother did, and what a sister who also trained for a career outside the home (as a physician) did. I thought about us and all the other women like us throughout human history. Are we Sisyphus— condemned to carrying mankind and the burdens of mankind for eternity, with no real relief, reward, or recompense from mankind for our self-denial? I’m told that my sister who had given up her career as a physician to raise her fi ve kids burst into tears when she read above poem.

How many men can say they’ve experienced the pain of facing this dilemma that invariably yet inevitably strikes most women at some point in their lives? If not to take care of their kids, then it’s to take care of aging parents or some other ailing family member that many women have had to give up careers outside the home for. While many more men today attempt to carry this burden equally with their wives, sisters, or partners, much of the problem remains systemic in society. Isn’t it ridiculous that we’re still talking about this as an issue in the 21st century? It is gross injustice that any woman, indeed anyone, has to make such a choice or sacrifi ce. A human being is not complete unless he or she is able to attain the fullest freedom of self-expression. This, to me, is what Maslow’s Hierarchy of Values ultimately teaches us. How could we keep asking women to keep living as half human beings—to be Magdalen or Madonna, motherhood over other vocation, and vice versa?

Underlying all the social commentary on women’s choices is that word, “respect”. While social conservatives laud a woman’s choice to be a stay at home mom, romanticizing her supposed heroism and nobility as a mother, I, like some women who unapologetically lamented the fact that I gave up a career outside the home to be a mother, questioned it all. Did people truly respect women for choosing to stay at home to raise their kids? How does one then explain the repeated condescension I experienced from men and women alike when I told them I was a housewife and a stay at home mom—a far cry from how people reacted if I told them I was a lawyer? Likewise, there’s the attitude, mostly from misogynists and many full-time mothers who fancy themselves the gold standard of motherhood, that throws the unrivalled criticism and condescension upon women as being “not good enough moms” when the latter have the temerity to pursue careers outside the home while also choosing to become mothers. A woman, it seems to me, still can’t win: She’s damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t. I can hear Hillary Clinton agreeing wholeheartedly.

What then, my poem asks above, is the reward for a woman, like my mother, who’d spent most of her life taking care of others almost to the point of self-annihilation? I seem to be hearing voices again, for I’m here hearing wellmeaning friends and family quickly responding with, “But Vicki, just look at how great your kids are! Isn’t this more than enough reward for choosing to stay home to raise your kids?” My answer: yes and no. While I agree there is no greater reward for a mother than seeing her children grow up into great human beings, I also believe it’s high time human society found a genuine and realistic way to support, compensate, and equalize the playing fi eld for women who, by reason of their anatomy and biology, have been almost wholly bound to the sole function of being humanity’s life bearers, givers, and caretakers to the very end—so that women could have the real opportunity, perhaps not necessarily at having it all, but at the very least, having a reasonable chance of juggling it all, yet still be able to stand solidly on their own feet. The last criterion is crucial: Unless women are given the fi nancial freedom to make their own choices, such choices aren’t truly free. Thus, the high cost of trustworthy childcare and senior care lays bare society’s lip service to women’s equality with men as just that: a facetious though romantic tribute to a principle practiced more by its denial than its realization.

This Thanksgiving, how about thanking, respecting, and honoring all women for the choices they’ve made and choose to make in their lives? And after that, how about we all work to compel Congress to pass legislation to ensure affordable child, senior, and health care, including equal wages for equal work, to liberate women to make genuinely free choices as complete human beings truly equal to any and all men?

(All rights reserved. Copyright ©2017 by Victoria G. Smith. For updates on her author events & publications, go to VictoriaGSmith. com. “Like” her on Facebook at Author Victoria G. Smith. “Follow” her on Twitter @ AuthorVGSmith)