What a mess this house is. What a crumb-cluttered, toy-tossed, almost indescribable state of yuck. Here's a stuffed duck I found inside a pot inside a drawer. Duck soup. We suffered complete pandemonium after tonight's supper, for which there was no explanation. Both parents were too tired to rise from the table to staunch the inevitable tragedy-in-waiting. (Nothing too terrible happened). But, crikey, it was loud. You could have called it downright chaos. Anarchy.
After dish-washing, and lunch-packing, I corralled the older two children into helping me plan out new morning and evening responsibilities. Actually, there's nothing new about any of these, it's just new that we're writing it up and posting it on the wall under the saleable titles of: Happy Day AM!, and Happy Day PM! (Chores, duties, and other words of that ilk did not feel quite so inspiring. Hopefully this is not a case of Orwellian double-speak). Thanks to both Janis and Marnie for their helpful suggestions on organizing and motivating feet-dragging children. We'll see how this works, and for how long ...
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In other news, I'm discovering mixed emotions about my women's studies zine/blog project (read the previous post if this is the first you're hearing about it), though perhaps should not be taking its temperature minute-by-minute (curse you, internet, curse you!). Talk about a consciousness-raising project (sadly, it may only be raising my own ...). But I spent part of last night surfing for blogs by feminist mothers, and found ... so much anger and bitterness. Destruction rather than construction. I wonder whether this is the feminist that other women don't want to define themselves as, and whether the word now means something other than what it once did. And maybe I'm a complete naif for never noticing that. I've always rather blithely defined myself as a feminist, without bothering to explain: oh, but not that kind of feminist. But I guess I'm not that kind of feminist, really. I'm not a natural activist, that's for certain. I have an abhorrence toward violence of any kind, and rage causes me deep discomfort. I do recognize there are situations in which rage might be the only response. But I still don't like it. I don't like feeling angry myself or assigning blame. I'm wondering ... can change happen ... gracefully, gently, slowly? Can it be brought about by people asking: how can I make this better? What does better look like? How can I help?
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Please go and read the responses to the questionnaire that are coming in. I've posted them here. They're lovely and thought-provoking, and I thank everyone who's taken time to reply. You've got me thinking, too.Labels: chores, feminism, work
What a mess this house is. What a crumb-cluttered, toy-tossed, almost indescribable state of yuck. Here's a stuffed duck I found inside a pot inside a drawer. Duck soup. We suffered complete pandemonium after tonight's supper, for which there was no explanation. Both parents were too tired to rise from the table to staunch the inevitable tragedy-in-waiting. (Nothing too terrible happened). But, crikey, it was loud. You could have called it downright chaos. Anarchy.