On Mindful Monday, my readers and I practice the art of pausing, TRYING to be still, or considering, ever so briefly, the big picture. We’re hoping this soul time will provide enough peace of mind to get us through the week!
I’ve always wanted a wife: a person responsible for making piles of laundry disappear, watering the plants, loading last night’s dinner dishes into the washer while issuing instructions on brushing teeth; for loading the frig with groceries, planning out the meals, and stirring the spaghetti sauce while supervising homework; for signing up Kid 1 for the right soccer team, getting Kid 1 to the right soccer game (made that mistake before!), and driving a snotty-nosed Kid 2 to the doctor when her foreheads is as hot as a volcano.
I’ve always thought that Jesus was a tad wrong when he told a whining Martha-who was busy doing all the grunt work, making the dough essentially-that Mary, who was sitting there doing nothing (or so it seemed to Martha) but welcoming Jesus and making him feel comfortable, had the better part.
But a few months ago I got one. A wife. When Eric’s architectural firm, like every other architectural firm in the country, stopped getting work because no one can build, buy, or renovate in the horrible housing market of today.
This makes me the husband, the breadwinner, the dude who is supposedly bringing home the bacon and handing it to his wife to fry up in a pan with a little olive oil and seasoning. I have switched roles from a Mary (with kids grabbing at her) to a stressed-out Martha.
My day is much quieter now. I like that….not being yelled at 2,094 times because I don’t think cotton candy or Skittles are suitable afternoon snacks. I like not having to discipline 24/7 because I’m so pathetic at it anyway that friends begged me to submit a tape of our dinner hour to the reality show “Nanny 911.” I like the adult stimulation of working full time as a blogger and freelance writer (of whatever assignment I can get). I like the extra time to use my brain, and not having to squeeze e-mails in between requests from the little ones. And I like knowing the kids are with their father, not a sitter who is texting her girlfriends to find out the skinny on Josh, Brian, or Max, while the kids are camped out in front of reruns of “30 Minute Meals with Rachael Ray.”
But I’m not having the relaxing lunches I accused Eric of having the day he told me to put three-year-old David in underpants because our son was going to have to learn how to use the potty eventually.
“Easy for you to say!” I lashed out that morning. You get to enjoy a hot Italian sub with your co-workers while I clean up excrements all day long. You get to stay in that nice ironed oxford of yours, while I’ll change sweaters three times.”
No. All is not Utopian in Matha-land. She has deadlines, lots of them, and pressure. Man oh man, does she have pressure. Because she has to provide for a family of four: two big people and two little people are depending on her brain to function well enough to produce words that will miraculously turn into the cash they need to live in the house they bought, to go to the schools they are enrolled in, and to buy an occasional cup of Starbucks.
She never thought to consider Martha’s pressure back when she was Mary. She never pondered Martha’s set of problems: a sore neck from eight hours of bad posture at the computer, and a headache to match it from having to concentrate for longer than 15 minutes.
Now I can’t say for sure who has the better part. Maybe Jesus wasn’t so wrong after all.
What do you think?
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