On being domesticated

I dream about my future marriage and future husband, and just my future in general. My Joseph Gordon-Levitt freelance writer/artist/designer/musician husband will work from home. I will be the passionate career woman, designing for an established fashion house, until my husband's talents get recognised and he gets his "big break" as a writer/artist/designer/musician. (e.i his artwork will be sold for $hundreds x thousands, or his novel will be adapted into a Peter Jackson film starring James McAvoy, or his ground-breaking innovative designs will be published and praised in Communication Arts, or he will be asked to compose scores alongside Hans Zimmer!) But 'til then, he works at home, housekeeps, walks the dog, pick up the kids from soccer practice, and make their afternoon tea, in between getting creatively (or better, divinely) inspired. I will be the naughty mommy that gets in trouble from the children's principal for excusing my children out of school and taking them to the zoo, on my day off work.


Notice, in this dream I don't ever enter the kitchen. I just could not, I can not imagine myself as a housewife. Me? *gasp* I spent too much blood, sweat, tears, money on my studies and to get to where I am!


But that's changed now. Things have changed. I've changed. Being 23-turning-24, a full-time student, and still living at home and leeching off my unfortunate parents (oh, the shame), I decided to do something to take their load off. And that's how I was underway to being domesticated, and actually, to my surprise, enjoying it. I wake up at 7am, grind coffee beans, juice fruits, toast toasts for the hard-working 'rentals. We joke and chat with Kari Jobe in the background. I kiss them goodbye, then clean up, wash up, do the laundry, and alter trousers, this time with Sara Bareilles, while thinking about cooking a healthy lunch, and fitting bed-jumping in between chores.


 I think I've tapped into something here. I think this is it. The ancient forgotten art of being a domesticated goddess. The joy that comes from people enjoying what you cook. The satisfaction of when the kitchen utensils are sitting in their right places. It's wonderful, really! So I'm slowing changing my mind. Maybe, I won't let my husband do all the housework. Maybe, I won't mind being a housewife. Just maybe, I would rival those hot 60's housewives on Mad Men. 


My future husband, my children with unisex names, and my brood of adopted teddy-bears are just going to adore me to bits!