I have called my blog Bored Housewife Syndrome because I am a housewife, and, frankly, I'm a little bored. My daughter is 6 and in first grade. The age where some say either get a job or have another baby. See, while your child is in school, and while they're playing with friends or having lessons after school, you have time on your hands. A lot of time. I observe many women who seem so busy and stressed, advertisements and Oprah devote a lot of time to these women, and I just don't get it. I am not busy, unless you call watching Cosby Show reruns while eating popsicles, busy. Some women are actually busy, working inside and outside the home, having multiple children, cleaning their houses, going to the gym, but I am not one of these women. I am blessed to have what I always wanted and that which is still the most important thing to me: the luxury of staying home with my only child while she's little. I'm crazy about my kid, I treasure the time I have with her, and this is really a once in a lifetime opportunity that is worth every sacrifice. Now that she's six, though, there's a lot of sitting around waiting for her to need something. Not only waiting for those times when she has a fever, or needs something explained to her, or wants you to read Charlotte's Web, things that really feel like parenting, but sometimes she needs you to take her to music class, and do her laundry, and tie her shoes. Of course she needs these things, she's six after all; that's what I'm here for, and I'm happy to do it. But in the meantime, I read a lot of magazines.
I could spend my free time cleaning my house and going to the gym, and, honestly, I should. I am a complete failure at the house keeping part of house wifery. My house is clean enough, I guess. I mean, I wouldn't eat off my kitchen or bathroom floors, but the dishes are done, and everyone has clean underwear, and the dog is brushed, but the blinds are dusty, and there's that pink mildew between the shower tiles, and the stove is embarrassing. I've seen worse. Some of these things would take no time at all if I did them regularly, but I don't, so things go from slightly unclean to disgusting and become lengthy, intimidating chores. When I do scrub the shower tiles, though, it has a huge impact. I show it off when my husband come home from work, "look at the shower! Isn't it clean? Can you remember a time when it was this clean?" Thank goodness for house guests, that's what I say, I don't even want to think about what my place would look like if it wasn't for wanting to give a false impression to people who see me once a year.
So, that is the background for my blog.
Right at this moment, my daughter, Leila (pronounced Lila; I insisted on the extra 'e' which I now regret. Too late now!) is sitting with me at the kitchen table along with her friend, Eva (easy to spell, easy to say) eating soy crackers from Trader Joe's and drinking apple juice. Their play date began when I picked them up from school and we weren't in the house 15 minutes before Eva was crying and Leila was tattle-taling. Apparently, Eva threw a piece of Polly Pocket clothing at Leila's chest, and Leila felt the need to tell me about it. Oh, the drama... If you've never seen Polly Pocket clothing, imagine someone throwing a rubber band at your chest; not shooting it at you, just throwing it at you. Hardly a reason for informants and tears. Now they are running back and forth along the length of my house, screaming, and playing chase with the puppy, Perry.
Leila's first grade class is doing a section on Mexico, and today they colored in maps and glued things to the map that you might find in Mexico: popcorn (or maize) tinfoil (silver, I'm guessing) and there was a cotton ball on there that I can't explain. The other day, Leila apparently told her teacher she had a short Spanish song she wanted to sing, so with Ms. Houts' permission, she stood up in front of the class and sang... Frere Jacques.