My dad used to say, "another day, another dollar." Which I have amended slightly: "...spent." Not having a grown up job that pays real green American dollars is depressing. When one is gainfully employed in the public or private sector (as opposed to the fantastically well paid and growing domestic sector), one showers, dresses oneself, consumes a breakfast, perhaps prepares a lunch to take along, and commutes to the appropriate place of business.
In the domestic sector, a shower is a luxury snatched during unpaid breaks, a breakfast is snarfed down in record time over the sink so as to minimize dishes, and the commute is just one long circular trip from one child's entertainment venue to the next.
In the real world, one interacts with adults, actively solves problems, resolves conflicts, fulfills responsibilities, sets goals, and is subject to a process of peer review. One's employment performance is rated by the efficiency of goals set and met, one's dynamic with coworkers and management, one's quantifiable achievements as put forth by the workplace expectations.
The domestic sector is an arbitrary process of occasionally succeeding. The expectations are vague at best, impossible at worst. The dynamic is a constantly evolving power struggle. Employment performance is based on whether or not your child matures to become an anti social psychopath or a stripper. Short term achievements (matching socks) are often overlooked.
That life, the external existence is the very core of human experience. Since Neanderthal times, the boundary between domestic and external has defined our very survival. In modern times, this process of offering labor in exchange for monetary compensation and marginal benefits is widely considered a benchmark by which we esteem our fellow humans.
WORK IS EVERYTHING.
And then. Then, there are those of us in the domestic sphere. We, the huddled masses yearning to accomplish something which is recognized as an accomplishment. We, the downtrodden voiceless of the home maker, mother, wife. We, who cannot log on to the Internet or enter an automobile without spending (in varying quantities) money that we did not earn. We, who toil under the dictatorship of wee tyrants--be they toddlers, preschoolers, tweens, teens, or *worse* adult children at home. We, who thanklessly undertake Sisyphean tasks of unutterable futility. Laundry (because every 7 year old needs to change clothes hourly), feedings (because every 5 year old needs a processed carbohydrate every 33 1/2 minutes, cleaning (because no child or husband has discovered that the giant bin next to the door filled with shoes is there to deposit shoes into) and entertainment (because every child needs something to distract them every second of the day, unless he is watching TV, in which case he requires someone to deliver processed carbohydrates on a silver platter).
We, WE who defend Internet purchases because (hey, they sent me an email advertising a sale) and because we cannot take our dastardly mini-bosses out into public lest they humiliate us further. We, who agree that while a $50 pair of shoes may not be indulgent, the fact that this is our third pair this week might be. We, who understand that Lego translates from Swedish into "bare foot piercing pain most approximating the searing agony experienced when Romans nailed Jesus' foot." And that these mini weapons of podiatric destruction must be searched out and removed before inflicting this pain on dozens. And that should these Swedish foot piercers be trapped in the Dyson, they must be removed lest our bosses miss the one blue 2 dot rectangle that will irrefutably transform a rickety stack of bricks into the 3 ion-cannon blasting space ship driven by radical space pirates capable of destroying the universe if able to achieve hyperspace.
WE KNOW THESE THINGS.
We know the nuanced difference between the wanky plea for attention and the gut wrenching scream of an imminent ER visit. WE negotiate peace daily, re define boundaries and political alliances, WE keep the shoulders to the grindstone, desperate to keep our unyielding miniature bosses in relative calm.
WE pay ourselves in Land's End capris and Merona flip flops. WE award ourselves bonuses of TCBY and puffed rice treats. WE rationalize our self denials as necessary for the benefit of an entire family. WE have transitioned from a time of external perceived value to a current de-valued status:
MOM.
We are moms. And our day came and went. And our bosses continue. And like AIG and Goldman Sachs, our bosses have rewarded themselves with a 12 week vacation bonus. And we, WE pay for that most dearly of all. On your toes, moms. Summer's startin'.
Oh no, I reward myself with Anthropologie but shoes and purses do make a fine runner up.
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