I love it when my husband cooks breakfast on the weekend! And this was partially leftover from our delicious vegetarian fajitas last night – he cooks most of our dinners too. And most of those are great. With only a few misses.
We actually ate green eggs from a local farm. Look at these eggs! Green, blue, and dark brown.
Huevos Rancheros with leftover seitan fajitas and homemade, roasted chile and grape tomato salsa.
I am one lucky lady!
(P.S. The eggs look normal once you crack them open. Once in a while when there’s a few to many crazy colored eggs, I almost lose my appetite, but the bottom line is – whatever their color – fresh, local eggs really do taste better!)
Look at the lilacs my husband picked and put in a gorgeous blue bottle whose label he peeled off himself! He loves the way they smell. I love him! Other things to notice in this photo: fruit, which my husband recently claimed we don’t eat enough of (there are apples and plums as well, but these were prettiest), and in the top left corner, Tim’s sick (heehee, trying to use the lingo of the kids these days) new ride, a snowboard called The Machete. We spent a surprising amount of money on his boarding gear two weeks ago, and are relieved that we didn’t buy me skis as well, for reasons which will be revealed towards the end of this post.
Wow, so much has happened in the past week an a half!
1) I was approved into the Blogging Women Network:
Now I’m a part of something bigger, something hand-selected! I don’t know what their criteria is for accepting blogs, but it was good for my ego to be accepted after so long that I had forgotten I even submitted my blog.
2) I was finally discovered by a like-minded blogger who writes at Messie Confessions! Such a meeting was a long time coming and very appreciated. I love the title of her blog.
3) A little over a week ago, we saw that faint pink line that indicated that I do indeed have a bun in the oven! It’s official now and I’ve been riding the roller coaster of emotions that go along with it.
Three months ago, I’m certain I would have been full of nothing but joy at this news, but when it finally arrived, it was cause for more ambiguity. Firstly, when to tell family and friends, and when to blog it.
I’m thirty-one, pregnant with my first baby and wading through those first three months of anxiety. Many people don’t share the news until safely into the second trimester, but I think I’m too old and impatient wait for that! So, I decided to tell the world and hope that nothing bad happens. If it does, I know I’m on the baby path now, so we’ll just try again.
Secondly, how to deal with the end of my independence and the end of my pre-pregnancy body. I had come to the conclusion that I’ve partied enough in my life, but when that is abruptly cut off, it’s not as easy as you might think to adjust. The city I live in is full of great restaurants in which we foodies love to meet friends for happy hour cocktails and brunch with bloody marries. It just seems strange to forgo such things for nine plus months!
But that’s not the worst of it. The hardest part is that I’ve managed to begin my pregnancy at my all time highest weight with an injury that I now can’t treat! The logical thing to do would have been to hold off trying for three months, to get my weight and injury under control, but that’s not how I roll I guess.
So, here I am, barely six weeks along, already looking like I’m showing, and unable to even walk for exercise. I’m seeing the doctor on Friday and hoping to get a referral to a talented specialist who will guide me in healing my back/hip problem so I can get to the exercising already.
You know me – I believe life is not a race – so I think you’ll forgive me for posting my Marriage Monday reflection on Tuesday. I’m so determined start a dialogue about marriage that I’m committed to attempting a weekly post about it.
I just….haven’t been able to do it regularly yet.
This week, I’ve been reading Flux, by Peggy Orenstein and I came upon a paragraph that mirrors feelings I’ve had about my husband that I hadn’t been able to put into words. The emphases are mine.
As I turned back to my computer screen, Steven came in, bearing a bowl of udon, a kind of Japanese noodle soup, for my lunch. He set it down beside me, then quietly left the room. It was a small gesture, but I realized that in our relationship, those gestures were usually his. He was the one who worked the garden, who cooked, who found special things to display on the walls. He had made our home a sanctuary. It occurred to me that he was the kind of person I wished I were: the kind who could be accomplished in the outside world yet create a cozy environment at home without either role threatening the other. He had found the balance that I lacked. The longer I was married to Steven, the more I appreciated what he brought to our relationship. Ironically some of his strengths are those most associated with women.Through him I was slowly learning that I could have connection without submission, domesticity without a betrayal of self. Those lessons did not come easily to a woman whose feminism was built on the primacy of autonomy and achievement, who saw any step toward traditional spheres of femininity as backsliding. I write about women, but it took a man to teach me this.
Wow! This blew me away. I feel so fortunate to have met a man who is as unconventional as I am. Just as I’ve not been overly comfortable discussing certain “women’s topics” such as purses and shoes, he’s never been really comfortable talking sports. I remember him telling me in the beginning that he didn’t believe in traditional gender stereotypes (Boy, did I score when I met him!) and I’ve been well aware that knowing him has changed me, but I didn’t realize that his nurturing actions could have so profound an effect on my perception of myself as a woman.
Like Peggy, I grew up thinking that “any step toward traditional spheres of femininity as backsliding.” For much of my life I saw taking too much of an interest in such things as cooking and sewing as moving away from my opportunity to reach my potential. I grew up with the belief that I could and should “do anything” (that is, anything that wasn’t traditionally “women’s work”). I rejected the idea that I should sacrifice myself for a husband and children.
I think I’ve developed this blog as a way to address my ambiguity about these issues. I’m obsessed with the idea of the housewife – how I’ve never wanted to be one – how I’m beginning to question what it actually means to be one in the 21st century, now that women are no longer stuck “inside,” but are always connected to the rest of the world through the internet, continually networking and creating new definitions of “work.”
My husband’s generosity and care for me reminds me that caring for a family and making my home a sanctuary from the outside world is pretty much what gives my life meaning. Work is important in my life, and it has brought feelings of accomplishment and confidence that nothing else has, but it doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive of settling into domestic life with my life partner and future children.
The fact that my husband – a very accomplished man – can cook, buy plants for the house, be the one who remembers to water said plants, garden, and get excited about buying a vintage rug for the living room, proves that I can do such things without giving another thought to what it says about my gender or my potential to be “successful” in this world. Cooking for my husband (and myself) or packing his lunch, does not undermine my autonomy or my or my ability to “be accomplished” outside the home.
My sister sent this to me. She’s a mom of four and can no doubt relate to this on levels that I can’t. But, I think it’s pretty darn funny. It’s pretty good for a laugh on a Sunday night. Actually, you’ve probably seen some of the short versions of this if you’ve been watching the olympics, but this version is better.
(***Note: When this was originally posted, it had 2 comments. Unfortunately, all comments have been lost.)