Guest bloggette!

Hey dudes, I am the lucky Sunday guest blogette Mommyweirdest writing to you from my lovely, stinky [did the dogs pee?] office in Rockaway, NJ. I was at a loss for what I was going to write about today during the 35 seconds my daughter naps, and I came up with a few ideas: poop, my new reading glasses, or the kid. All colorful topics no one gives a shit about!

So, I’m going to stick with confessions. Everybody likes a juicy secret, no? Here’s mine:
I think my husband secretly wishes he had a Stepford wife
There, I said it.
Now, my husband isn’t a neat freak. He puts up with my messes that occur in whatever room I go in, and he even eats my cooking, which is pretty admirable. He encourage me to write, and is pretty darn creative himself, and we live in unconventional, wacky wonderful life if I don’t say so myself. BUT SOMETIMES, sometimes I know he wishes I were a happy housewife. You know the type - totally content to stay home 100% of the time with the kids making homemade play doh, and engaging in educational activities all day. A woman who’s happy to have breakfast and dinner on the table 7 days a week, and a wifey that never says “will you shut the fuck up, and let me sleep!” A neat freak, who cleans tubs after every bath, and NEVER looses bottles of milk that later turn up with things growing inside.

I mean, hell, I’d like a husband like that. Or a wife. Or you know, a personal slave.
But yeah, he’s stuck with me. The messy maker, shitty cooker, working mom who gets ticked when her toddler won’t sit still for six seconds so she can try to catch up on a book. And he loves me. We have fun. BUT SOMETIMES I get the sense, he wishes I were more…domestic.

And SOMETIMES, I feel a little guilty for being such an undomestic goddess. Like, I’d rather read and eat Butterfingers than do the dishes. And I’d rather get REALLY dirty in the yard, and go to sleep with dirt smudged on my cheeks than waste play time mopping floors. And you know what rules? Take out.

So that’s it my lame confession. I’m in a great place, but I have this underlining urk that I’m just not a good enough mom and wife. And what the fuck does that even mean? I’m a feminist, so why the hell do I let it bug me that I don’t have prime rib on the table every night? Why do I care that my house is messy, when I think creative endeavors are that important? AND WHY do I let myself get that twinge in my chest when I’d rather be writing essays than playing with Legos? That inpatient “I need to write and let it out fucking stupid Legos” feeling?
I’m done rambling.

Thanks for reading my thoughts. Next time, I’ll write about my new glasses, or poo, I promise - hell, it’ll be far more entertaining I bet!