Stork Misdelivery

Do you ever get the feeling that you were born into the wrong era?  I secretly believe I would have thrived in another life - one in which women’s “work” was resting under a parasol on a chaise lounge in the gardens of a fine Georgian manor house. Granted, I may have only lived until age 30 because I have asthma but none-the-less, I think I was meant for a more refined lifestyle.  One where we have house servants and a gardener and my greatest of worries would be what Cook should prepare for the bridge luncheon.  May I be struck down by Mary Lyon herself when I say this but what was really so great about the womens’ movement?  Now I am expected to be both career woman and domestic goddess and to tell you the truth, I am failing miserably at both right now.  I feel neither completely fulfilled as a stay-at-home mother nor as a corporate mogul.  I am restless.  I am fitful.

Where are those precious angel children clad in white linen frocks running circles around the maypole responding “Yes, Ma’am” and “No, Sir” - children seen but not heard?  I’ll tell you where they are - they’re plotting daily to overthrow the motherment and suggest mutiny or a coup any chance they can get.  And then I think of that public service announcement from when we were young showing the egg in the frying pan - “This is your brain.  This is your brain on drugs.  Any questions?”  And instead, I hear - “This is your brain.  This is your brain with children.  Any questions?” 

Oh to dress in fine silk gowns, sip mint juleps on the veranda, and have the “help” run after the little angels…and then I hear the echoes of my sweet Kate’s voice resounding down the hallway from the bathroom, “Mommy, can you wipe me!”  And then the spell is broken, and then the dream is over - the clock strikes twelve and my delicate glass slippers turn back into those ratty old flip flops I’ve had for more summers than I can remember.  Even Calgon can’t save me now…