Beware the Suburban Housewife

So my new point to this blog, other than my darling children (who are really the point of everything), is as a writing exercise. I was complaining to Joe last night (actually bawling) that my brain is atrophying and I can barely string two words together. This condition is not surprising when I consider that most of my conversations consist of arguments like, "We can't go outside right now, it's dark out." "No, it's not dark out!" "Yes it is." "No it's not!" "Yes it--wait, I'm not going to argue with you about this." "Yes, you are going to argue with me!" I'm talking to Ike in this conversation, if you're wondering.
Yesterday I actually stooped to telling Ike that he wasn't allowed to be whiny and cranky because it was my turn to be cranky, I'm the one whose knee was hurt (I did this, or something similar), I'm the one who didn't sleep last night, I get to be cranky! To which Ike replied as he put his head in his hands, "But I just can't help it, Mommy." How's that for suddenly seeing your true colors? No duh, he can't help it. I mean, I just told my 2-year-old he wasn't allowed to whine because I wanted to whine.
So. I need an intellectual outlet. I have my book club, but that's made up of playgroup moms, who I love, who are some of the smartest, best-educated women I know. But, we have to face facts, we only spend about an hour of any meeting talking about the book (if it's even worth an hour), and the rest of the time is spent drinking wine and talking about our kids and husbands. (shh. Don't tell the husbands.)
Joe suggested that I write in my blog regularly to practice my writing. So smart.
Also, there's always the dreaded question, "And what do you do?" Over the holidays we went to a few parties. We have a few friends who don't yet have kids (seriously, we do), and they have friends who don't have kids, who come to parties where we're expected to socialize. I've become self-conscious at parties like this because it's a totally acceptable party question to ask someone what they do for a living--I've asked it myself--and people often do really cool stuff. I say, "I'm a stay-at-home mom." I love raising my kids (in theory, not always in day-to-day practice--don't hate me, you know it's true for you, too). But my answer is usually a conversation stopper. What am I supposed to say? "I get puked on five times a day, while leaking breastmilk and arguing about the need for at least a t-shirt, if pants are not going to be worn." Probably also a conversation stopper.
People react in various ways. I've been asked, "But what did you do before you stopped working?" As if that would be the more interesting answer. Certainly my old job description is more acceptable in a room full of childless yuppies. I've been patronized: "Ohhh, I hear that's such a haaard job." And then there's what I got at a holiday party this year. The "oh, you must be a moron, then" stare. There was this guy, fresh out of law school, single, probably younger than me. (Another recent realization: there are lawyers younger than me. Also, most major league ball players, Olympians and every single Miss America contestant.) I saw the veil go down over his face as soon as I answered "the question" when his girlfriend asked it. I may have imagined it, but I don't think so. The girlfriend responds with reaction #2: "Oh, that must be haaard." And the topic got switched to pregnancy (I did not choose this). So, I'm participating in this conversation with the girlfriend (who's curious) and another mom (who works), and the lawyer decides he's going to argue with me about something stupid. I won't go into it. Basically, he's wrong, but I'm not going to say this because he obviously thinks that I should be the one who's wrong. As if because I choose not to work, I must not be intelligent. I must have only ever done one thing in this world, and that's change diapers, and it couldn't possibly be hard to do that. And if you choose to do that instead of real work, you must be a moron. Seriously, I got all this from the guy doing the arguing. I couldn't call him on this--it's not like he was being outrightly insulting. Could I just randomly yell at him where I went to school, that I graduated with honors, that I was at the top of my field before he even went to college? And then how would I have come off, as some crazy stay-at-home suburban housewife who doesn't know how to behave herself in social situations? Okay, so maybe that's sort of true, but I don't go around advertising it.
I swear. It makes me so angry. I chose to stay home to raise my family--to do dishes, change diapers, do laundry, breastfeed, kiss boo-boos and read "Curious George and the Dump Truck" 5 million times a day. I chose it, I didn't get stuck with it because it was all my little brain could handle. Doubt my current events savvy, doubt the appropriateness of my wardrobe, doubt my commitment to the feminist cause, but DON'T (this is where my writer alter ego does that snap and head waggle thing that I could never actually pull off in real life, even in jest) DON'T doubt my intelligence.