The Cult of Domesticity and Feminism in the Modern World

Often times I find myself sitting in a coffee house or sifting through sales at the mall with a friend I haven't seen since high school, and invariably I get the comment, "I never thought you would get married and take care of a man. You used to be such a feminist." Usually I brush away the comment, knowing the friend didn't mean any harm by it. But those comments are starting to concern me more as I get older, especially as those old high school friends change and develop into the people they were meant to become. They've missed the mark somewhere. Their naivety has become ignorance and I really feel something should be said about it.

Brent and I were married when I was 19 years old. I've always been stubborn and opinionated and wild and, despite all those things, an old soul. He knew this about me before he decided he wanted to spend eternity with me and asked me to marry him anyway.

My husband is beautiful. He's the kind of person who exudes kindness. He's compassionate, friendly, helpful, warm. He's the kind of person who, when he walks away from a group, leaves behind the happiness that overflows his aura on a regular basis. And more personally, he's the kind of man who will work a 40 hour week and still offer to clean the dishes in the sink, or watch the baby because he wants me to have time to create and sew, or get out of bed to get me a glass of water because I forgot to do it and it's too cold to leave the toasty covers. He's amazing.

Now, the root of feminism is the woman's right to chose for herself. I'm not entirely sure I would consider myself a feminist. I'm not one to attend bra burnings and I really don't read up on the subject all too often, but I do believe women should have the same rights as men. And just because a woman does, well, womanly things, doesn't mean she's a submissive Stepford.

I don't love ironing Brent's shirts, but I do it because I want him to feel good about himself at work. I don't always want to cook dinner, but I do it because I like my food MUCH more than Brent's. There is nothing in me that yearns for yard work, but often times I will go out and scoop poop or pull weeds or, in much rarer cases, mow the lawn, not because I feel I HAVE to as the SAHM, but because I want to. I do it because I love my husband and doing things for people is how I show my love for them.

Brent and I don't follow gender roles. I don't do the dishes. The thought of using my bare hands to wash away someone else's coagulated spit off a fork they were too lazy to rinse for themselves makes me physically sick. Brent knows this about me and always offers to do the dishes. I clean the toilets. I have no problem with toilets. Probably has something to do with the long stick brush that keeps me a few feet from the actual mess at all times.

I cook. Brent bakes.
I handle vehicle maintenance. Brent takes out the trash.
I dust. Brent vacuums.

We are a team. We work together to make our home function smoothly. Where I am flawed, Brent steps in.

Like many of you, I sew. I quilt. And sometimes, that means I fix ripped jeans and make Angry Birds stuffed toys for Brent's friends and iron his shirts. Like many of you, I like to DIY. Like many of you, I am an artist. I make cards, scrapbooks, baskets. I spray paint just about anything I can get my hands on. I have a weird fascination with chalk and paper tape and I like to make my own bubbles for my daughter. I'm a hands-on mom. All these things, however, do not add up to my lacking feminism.

I had grand plans as a teenager. I was going to leave this state, see the world, become a doctor. But the truth of the matter is, I grew up and realized I didn't really want those things at all. I had read so many amazing stories I wanted to emulate, but I was looking at the glorious end picture and not all the strokes it took to make it. I didn't travel because, as it turns out, I'm terrified of the ocean (TERRIFIED. That's a long story. I'll save it for another day.) I didn't become a doctor because, as it turns out, I don't like bodily fluids. Remember the whole spit thing? I was pre-med for two years and I swear I almost didn't make it through that last biology class (we have to type someone else's blood?! Are they crazy?!) I'm still in Arizona because, as it turns out, I live in an amazing state, full of natural beauty, great hiking spots and a thriving cultural center. And my family is here. And my friends. And everything I've ever known. My dreams changed as I grew up and I'm living them now.

I could have been the career type. I worked in the business world for a few years, long enough to know I didn't like the person I was while I worked there. I'm a good leader. I pay great attention to detail. I finish my work and have no problems letting colleagues know when they aren't doing their share. I was a great employee but I wasn't a great person. Working in business changed me. I know I could have been promoted quickly. I know I would have found great amounts of success, but I also wanted a baby, and I didn't want my baby to know this version of me. It was then I realized I wanted to be a SAHM. And Brent, being the aforementioned AMAZING person he is, said that he wanted whatever I wanted, and so we began to plan.

We paid down debts and put the dreams of buying a huge house on the back burner. Losing my income wasn't easy, but we manage. We keep to a tight budget and thankfully have not incurred any major costs since Maze was born. It took me two years to get pregnant with her. I know many people struggling to get pregnant, and I know our wait was nothing compared to what some couples go through, but it was a lifetime to me and I wanted her more than she will ever know. Wanting a child does not mean I am against feminism.

In the 1950s, a cultural phenomenon swept the nation known as The Cult of Domesticity. I won't go into a long-winded history lesson here (even though I SO want to) but basically, here's what happened:

- WWI ends. Country goes all crazy, banning alcohol and whatnot. Women's skirts get shorter. Promiscuity ensues. The Great Depression hits. Bam.
- Some women are forced to work to help care for their families. WWII begins. America watches from the sidelines. Economy is growing as America ships parts to other countries. Women don't have to work as much. Women told to get those hemlines down.
- Pearl Harbor gets blasted. America joins WWII. Women turn around and go back to work.
- WWII ends. Men come home. Women turn around and go back to the homesteads.
- 1950s. Hollywood shows nip, tucked, and starved women dressed to the nines baking cakes, mending clothes, and keeping garden. Suburban housing communities start showing up. The neighbors get a refrigerator. Now you need a better refrigerator. Lady neighbor wears a new dress she made to trim the roses. Now you need a new dress. And roses. Keeping up with the Joneses becomes a "thing".

Women in the 1950s were expected to tend to the home and children, and since suburbs were becoming more popular, women started trying to out-do themselves (or at least the woman next door). They cleaned. They sewed. They cooked. They baked. They were machines. They were programed to do these things by society, hence: The Cult of Domesticity.

Then the 60s happened. Then the 70s. 80s. 90s. You get the idea. Things changed.

Nowadays, I've seen this resurgence of home-making; of women WANTING to stay home. Women WANTING to cook. Women WANTING to sew, to organize, to decorate. Women are being called back to domesticity, but instead of the "Cult" part looming, I've been seeing modern women enjoying these tasks.

And I believe that is where I am.

I ENJOY all these things but I still sew in my sweat pants. I go to the farmer's markets in my band tees from 10 years ago. Sometimes I wear make-up, but only when I want to. I clean my house before people come over, but if I'd rather be doing something else, I don't clean my house and my guests just have to step over toys and shoes. I haven't been forced into any of this by someone else and I don't let my "responsibilities" to my house ruin my life. Brent does not dictate what, when or how I do anything. As I mentioned before: we are a team. We both do whatever is necessary to keep things moving smoothly. I GET to stay home to raise my children, I don't HAVE to. I GET to clean and decorate my house the way I want it, I don't HAVE to. I GET to be myself.

So, am I domesticated? Yes. Do I need your pity? Absolutely not. And I don't want it. I may not call myself a feminist, but that doesn't mean I am a mindless body doing what I am told to by a man. I am a strong, educated, confident woman who just so happens to also love to cook, clean, sew, and love my man.

And there's nothing wrong with that.

Blue Like Jazz - Donald Miller

There really is no way to summarize this book, Blue Like Jazz, other than to say it is a collection of non-religious thoughts on religion, as the author, Donald Miller, points out. I'm not sure what I was expecting when I picked up this book at Barnes and Noble a couple years back. I guess I was interested in the cover and the praise my friends gave it. Turns out none of my friends have even read it though, so I'm not entirely sure what was going through my mind when I picked it up. Must have been the cover alone. It really is a pretty cover.

I liked that this book was honest. From the start, Miller tells his story, regardless of the disgust it has brought from the staunch, traditional Christian community. He talks about girls (and the lack of girls) and of pipes (and the lack of pipes) and God (and the lack of God). He discusses the people he's met and how their views on Christianity and life helped him realize his path. He talks about friendships and growing.

The novel, if I can call it that without the literary community coming after me with pitchforks, was scattered. Sequence was foregone for conversation, and even though events occurred in a different order than they were relayed, I never really noticed as a reader. Instead, I found myself pondering on my own beliefs and recognizing people in my life who reflected the characters in his. I teared up a time or two as Miller discussed life and death and I laughed at some of the situations he found himself in. It was as if Donald Miller was sitting across from me just spilling his heart out on the table over a nice cup of Earl Grey.

I heard someone is developing a movie based on Blue Like Jazz. I can't figure out how to make a movie from this book, but I guess that's why it's not my job to do so. Overall, this is a good, thought-provoking read and gives a glimpse of the heart of the emerging church in America. It's worth the read, even if you're only interested in his stories of living in the woods or how he failed at being cool.

What I've been working on, through the eyes of Instagram

I'm so excited.

Embroidered Elephant Pillow

You've been asking. You've been prying. Now here it is:



My embroidered elephant pillow.



I made this over the course of about 10 months, stitching here and there as I had time. This pillow was a gift to a friend of mine who got married last year. It was a tough one to let go of, let me tell you, but it was always theirs. I chose this fabric specifically because this friend moved to India to teach shortly after I met her. She was there on a Fulbright Scholarship and eventually came back, but I have a feeling India has left a lasting impression on her. This print just screamed "India" to me, so choosing it was easy. As I stitched, I prayed for them, had many happy thoughts of them and who they would become as a family. I couldn't keep this pillow. It BELONGED with them.



I'll just have to start making me one now!



As everyone says, the pictures really don't do it justice. I varied my stitches and played with depth a bit more than I have in the past. If you are in the Phoenix area, I will be teaching a workshop on how to create this elephant (and basic embroidery stitches) in the coming year at the Phoenix Modern Quilt Guild. You can check the website for dates, once the "powers that be" have chosen them.



This elephant is stitched over Valori Wells' Karavan print. I used mostly DMC embroidery floss, along with some randoms I was given to make friendship bracelets by my aunt in 4th grade. Blue background is Betz White. Back of pillow is Lizzy House 1001 Peeps. Pom pom fringe from JoAnn's.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I'm at a bit of a loss. Clara has recently entered her screaming phase and I'm over it. I don't mind the screams of joy when her friends come to visit or the screams of happiness when she slides down her slide. Honestly, I don't even mind the screams when she's fallen off the couch and she just wants mommy to scoop her up and give her love. No. The screams I'm sick of are the ones she makes when she wants her way.

The tantrum screams.

The "play with me RIGHT NOW" screams.

I don't want to be that mom who yells, "STOP SCREAMING AT ME OR YOU'LL GET A SPANKING," mostly because I kind of think that defeats the purpose of punishing a child for screaming... And the spanking, I don't really feel she's warranting that kind of consequence either.


I've been putting her in time-out every time she starts yelling. She gets her angry eyes and scowls at me and sometimes screams louder, but I can't really think of any better way of dealing with this phase. I've had friends tell me I'm hurting her psyche, but seriously, I'm far less concerned with hurting her feelings than I am about helping her grow into the lovely little lady I know she will become. There are so many wonderful things about her, but the screaming needs to stop. Like, yesterday.


Any advice for me?

The Postmistress - Sarah Blake

I have a degree in history, so as you might imagine, I love a good war story. The Postmistress, however, is not a good war story. It's not really even a good story on its own.

The novel is supposed to be based on the life of the postmistress in a small town on Cape Cod. The thrilling thesis: what if the postmistress never delivered a letter? Gasp! ...not really.

Instead of being about that, it flitters back and forth between the stories of two women in two countries. World War II is in full swing and these women are enduring it. The novel has small town banter and points out the plight of the Jewish people living in Europe, but nothing new for fictional World War II novels.

I think the problem is less about the fact that this is a tired story line, and more about the fact that there is no action. There's no thrill. The author dully drolls on about woman one in the most bland way possible, then carries on another 20 pages about woman two, in an equally boring and stale storyline. There is no climax or resolution because there is no action. Even though she threw in a couple fairly pointless sex scenes, the overall feeling of the story didn't change. It's just a story. It never builds, then slowly peters off in the end.

Now, I will give Blake one compliment: her verbiage is fantastic. She writes so romantically and seemingly effortlessly. It was the one element of this novel that kept me reading. The content, however, also seemed effortless, which I think was her downfall. If you're going to write in romantic prose, at least give us a feisty leading lady or true romance, a la Austen, or keep it short like Dickinson.

I'm actually wondering how much Kathryn Stockett was paid to review the novel, because her comment on the cover about how "beautifully written" and "thought-provoking" it is was the grain that encouraged me to read The Postmistress in the first place. I'm a little worried that if this is the caliber of material Stockett is endorsing, maybe the beauty of The Help was a fluke? I would like to think Stockett will put out more amazing works, but I have to wonder. It's not like I picked up this book and the cover reviewer was Cosmopolitan. At least when I pick up those books, I know what I'm in for.

I was hoping for another Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Didn't get it. If you're really bored and this happens to be the only book on your shelf you haven't read, go ahead and read it. Otherwise, I wouldn't recommend it.

Mommy vs. The Chicken Head

Some mornings you have very important decisions to make. This was one such morning.

I woke up with massive chicken head. I have loads of errands to run. Conundrum.

Now, I could have taken a shower, but that would have meant leaving Maze to fend for herself for 10 whole minutes. Ten minutes of me being stuck in my little wet jail cell as I peek through the shower door at her pulling every piece of perfectly folded clothing from my dresser drawers and not being able to do anything about it. Ten minutes of her dancing around the bathroom stringing toilet paper along behind her. Ten minutes of her opening the bathroom cabinets and discovering mommy's secret treasure trove of eye shadows and lip glosses.

No. Not today. Today is a day for jeans and T shirts and ridiculous fuzzy boots that don't match anything but somehow work their way into every outfit I own.

Today's chicken head will be tamed by a hat.