A Housewife

Sometimes I am reminded that I am a housewife. Often these reminders are sweet, bathing my baby late in the morning while my husband is in his second meeting of the day. Meeting my friends for lunch while he takes a quick run through the drive through. Halloween parties and reading groups at school. Being there when the kids get home. These are things I love, reasons why staying home is so good.

And then there are other reminders that aren't as good. Like a work dinner at LaCaille that your husband assures you is casual. And because nothing fits your post baby body (except for your maternity jeans) you are happy to believe him. Because you have never been to LaCaille, you wear them (against your better judgement.) And then you get there. And it's fancy in a non-jean wearing kind of way. So you feel like a shmuck. All through your sprite cocktail. Then you finally sit down for appetizers. And the table hides those blasted maternity jeans. Hurrah. The CEO orders escargot for everyone. Because LaCaille is fancy. And French. You try it (against your better judgement) and can't get it out of the darn shell. Because you are using your ginormous salad fork. Said CEO kindly points out a teensy fork sitting RIGHT next to your plate meant just for this purpose. So you eat that fancy little snail. And maybe dry heave just a little. Before ordering duck as your main course. Duck is slightly better than escargot. Slightly. So you eat bread. And spend the evening talking to your husbands French co-worker who is seated next to you. Mostly about France. And Salt Lake City. And raising children in France vs. Salt Lake. Everyone is curious. And then the CEO stands up and does his go team speech. And all you can think about is that little babe at home. And how you would rather be there than here. Wearing jeans. And eating snails. And feeling super un-fancy and un-French.