Where I Am Right Now.

I was raised by, in a community of, hippies and feminists and liberals. From the moment I took breath, I was taught and told and shown that I could do and be anything. President? No problem. World traveler? Fantastic! Literary legend? Of course! Genius artiste? Duh!

The fact that I was a girl was never part of the lesson, except perhaps for the lesson of They Might Try To Say You Can't Because You're A Girl, But That Just Means They're Dumb. The words "housewife" and "secretary" weren't exactly dirty, but...

Gender, age, money, none of these things mattered, what mattered is that I put my mind and heart and soul into it and I can go anywhere, I can do and be anything.

...is it wrong, then, that I want to stay home? That I want to be a homemaker, to literally spend my time making a home for my family?

I spent my mini-vacation being domestic. I cleaned, I neatened, I laundered, I cooked, I washed, I rearranged, I organized, I grocery shopped, I planned, I outlined, I budgeted. I neatened my boyfriend's desk, cleaned up his dishes, refilled his drink, made him breakfast and dinner, helped him cook and get ready for work.

I loved every single second of it. Even the frustrating seconds, the seconds where I looked at our money situation and wanted to throw up my hands, the seconds where I got to the laundry room after hauling down an overflowing basket only to discover that I had forgotten the quarters, the seconds where the pancakes burned and the cupcake batter turned to cement and I got sauce on the bottom of my sock and Ryan spilled melted chocolate on the white shirt I just washed yesterday.

I loved taking care of my man. There it is. I gave him shit and sassed him while doing it, I never once did anything because I thought it was "my place" to do so, I helped him when he asked and got his help when I needed it. He never once just assumed I would do something because I'm a girl, he never waved off what I was doing as a given, and all references to my being domestic were either ironic or completely appreciative.

I didn't spend every moment focusing on the house, of course. I also worked on my photography, spending hours taking, editing and uploading pictures. I even hacked at my writing a bit, although that's been quite sticky. As much as I focused on making up our home, I also focused on my own personal and artistic endeavors.

Part of the plan in moving to Indiana was to figure ourselves out, to work and live and get by and think on what we missed from what we were doing in Connecticut. Specifically for me, I hoped to dabble in all my interests--photography, graphic design, marketing/advertising, writing, editing--and see which ones stuck, which ones I made time for because I wanted to, which ones I wanted to invest my time and money in, in terms of potential college degrees.

I have a full time job where I am on my feet all day, I spend a good deal of time taking care of the house, and I still make sure I find time to read, write, do art photography, and be with my friends and boyfriend. These are the things I find important: words, art, people.

I realized, months ago, that I don't want to back to school. In fact, the thought gives me the willies--spending thousands to sit in a room and learn crap I don't need so I can get a piece of paper? I'd rather spend a fraction of the money to get good lenses and materials, I'd rather spend the time concentrating on an outline or learning what exactly each button and dial on my camera does or having a movie & crafting night with my friends or cooking dinner with my love.

The things I care about, the things I want to do, the person I want to be...I don't need college for that. I just need to get the hell out of my own way.

Okay, so I don't just want to be a homemaker. I also want to be an artist and a writer. I know my hippie parents will be overjoyed that I'm finally realizing the last part. I guess I'm just worried about the first part. I was raised in the woods, in workshops, at period faires and drum circles and Pagan gatherings...and I want to be a housewife? A stereotype?

For me, the real stereotype is the woman who is only at home because she's been taught, from the moment she took breath, that it is her destiny, that her brain doesn't matter. The woman who has never had a choice. So no, I don't want to be a stereotype. I just want to be me.

And that happens to mean that I stay at home and take care of my children, my spouse, and our home. I'd even be happy staying a barista part-time to help with bills--not a shift supervisor, not a manager, but a barista, because I happen to love it.

I guess that's what it comes down to--I happen to love my life where I "just" serve people, "just" keep house, "just" write and take pictures.

I'm losing that frantic feeling that I NEED to Do Something, to Have A Career or at least a Real Job, because without one I'm wallowing in the rut that so many people fought for me to be able to leave. I'm losing the self-imposed of cloud of Should, of What Am I Going To Do With My Life, the guilt that's more from myself than anybody else. I'm gaining self-respect, fulfillment, peace and contentment with who I am and what I want to do.

And hell, I'm not even there yet! I'm still in the part where we have to work our asses off to get by, where I can only get myself to write once or twice a week, where I have a small window for photography each day that I miss as often as I hit, where most nights I'm so tired that even reading sounds too taxing. I'm still at the part where the house and the family and the life that I crave is far enough away to seem impossible.

But I know I'll get there, I know we'll get there. And I know now what I want it to look like.

I love that picture. I'm proud of that picture.
And that's all that matters.