Recipe For: A Wife
My husband encouraged me to write this post. I was hesitant because I fear it will bias as hell since I’m obviously super fab and killing it every day. Wow, I almost said that with a straight face! Good for me!
Being a wife is the hardest job I’ve ever undertaken. Maybe not even just wife, but wife and mom. The level of responsibility on your shoulders at all times is unprecedented. You are the secret keeper, the organizer, you are required to remember where everybody’s everythings are, you have to cook dinner, get everyone where they need to go, and, if you’re like me you’re involved and you volunteer and then that creates a whole other level of involvement and, at times, complication.
In no way am I complaining. It’s just a lot to have on your plate. Mom brain is real. I have to write things down. I put it in my reminders and calendar on my phone or it’ll shoot right out of my head. Then throw in the holidays and your child has a birthday two weeks following Christmas and it starts to feel like your world is starting to implode when you’re supposed to be happy and joyful.
I’m grateful every day for my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy and it doesn’t mean I worry 582 times a day about all the ways I’m getting it wrong. I worry about the ways I may have succeeded in some areas, but failed in bigger areas, and how I have let myself or my family down. Just because someone carries their load well doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy.
But that’s just ranting, not a recipe.
See, I knew this wouldn’t go well. 😏
Recipe for A Wife
Some of what I say may come off as old-fashioned, but I’m here to tell you, I couldn’t be further from it. I love to have food delivered, I’m basically a professional online shopper (no idea what that would entail, but I for sure qualify) and I have a cleaning lady because I hate cleaning and I’m not good at it and I don’t have the patience for it.
I had to ask my husband to make sure I was using the correct sports analogy here (because I’m totes magotes not a sports girl at all) … simply put: the wife is the quarterback of the family.
She is running the show. She’s the supporter, the cheerleader, the one who holds you accountable, the rock, the soft place to land, the delegator, the initiator, and the one who is always looking 15 steps ahead because she knows if she’s not – – nobody else is and you’ll be sunk.
She’ll set her dreams aside to help you achieve yours. She’ll find a way to make them her dreams too. Or she’ll find a way to get to hers in time.
You want her in your corner.
But what can I say? This post is biased as hell. 😏
(So, my web designer says I needed to include a bio, though I find this task silly because, if you’re here, you know me.)
I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s a cathartic mechanism when I need release from my anxiety. I’ve had blogs in the past; I’ve taken them down, but I never stopped writing. I simply can’t. My notes app is forever long as it’s filled with pages and pages of different topics. Sometimes I just write a few sentences. Sometimes I write paragraphs.
Recently, I've been writing long essays. My friends and others I hold dear have coaxed me into sharing my work again.
So that's what I'm doing, you wicked, pushy people. LOL
I have no desire to see my writing be anything more than an opportunity to share what I love doing most. I have no interest in this blog reaching the masses.
I thought it would be fun to call it My Spicy Disaster because that's often how I feel. A complete mess of epic proportion. So join me, if you'd like, and let's pretend we're not sitting amongst the chaos crying, but laughing instead.
Or maybe we do cry sometimes, but then wipe our tears and remember one person’s disaster is another person’s … well, who the hell knows …