Mormon Housewife

They jokingly refer to me as the Mormon housewife, and I'm not quite sure who should be more offended. The Mormon?  The housewife? Regardless, it bugs me because it's true, except for the parts that aren't. I'm baby-hungry, but a horrible cook; I spend my free time doing laundry or sweeping the floors, but only to an extent. Only because I have to. I do, however, enjoy strolling the home goods aisle at Target, convincing myself we can afford one more end table. I can even make myself think it's a necessity. Yet when the home is complimented and praise directed to me, I defer. I understate my involvement. Why am I so bugged to be called housewife?

There are lots of bugs in this house.  Spiders that crawl quickly out of sockets, flies that bang blind into window panes, and beetles that look bored as I paint or stain or whatever womanly project I've undertaken. Womanly. What happened to my feminism? My rejection of misogyny? A tiny black beetle crawls slowly over the throw pillows I've so carefully chosen, considering pattern and color, yearning for style yet restraining myself to what I consider a masculine color pallet or a bold pattern. Perhaps this is why I'm uncomfortable when my roommate dons red heels and boasts of his shapely legs. I want to crawl away and hide in the walls of my own do-it-yourself, follow-the-instructions gender norms.

I gently lead the bewildered beetle into a glass cup and carry him outside to the grass. And just like that, over time, I remove the unwanted parts of me from the presentable household I'm keeping.