Not Really a Housewife

I like doing laundry.  I admit it.   I like sorting the colors.  If I had the time, space, and money I'd probably sort by material also.  I care about which laundry detergent I use and which dryer sheets.  I like the folding and the hanging and the putting away in neat stacks.

I do not iron.

I like vacuuming and sweeping.  Seeing the piles of dirt and the bits getting sucked away brings me happiness.  I even move things, and try to get under things.  I strive to do a good job, even when I thought I was just going to do a "quick turn".

I don't like mopping.  Or scrubbing.  I don't do windows.  I will do walls about once every two or three years.  Dusting only happens when we're rearranging the furniture.

I don't HATE to cook 'cause, you know, food.  Yum!  But given my druthers, I don't want to cook.  And I sometimes resent cooking for others.     

I think I like sewing.  I know I like crocheting. 

I don't remember to water the plants.

I don't consider myself a housewife.  I don't care enough about the overall home atmosphere.  And I am a "modern" woman, so I automatically have a shudder effect with the word "housewife".  It's a trained reaction which I hope to undo someday, for I admire people who can make a cozy place for others.  I admire caretakers - mostly from the viewpoint of one who is being cared for, true, but the admiration is sincere. 

Regardless, when I disdain dusting, I do it with pride.

But sometimes, my inner housewife comes out, puts on her "do-rag" and grabs her laundry basket.  And she's pretty proud about that too.