Are You Giving Me the Finger?
When my mother remarried when I was 10, she married into a large Italian family that ate dinner together once a month, at least. Where you sat at the table said everything about your rank in the family. My stepfather sat at the head of the table next to his shriveled up parents, then came the aunts and uncles, then the cousins and mailman, then me and my younger brother. I think my mother sat somewhere in between; it was hard to see her over the vats of ziti.
Dinner with my newfound family caused me a lot of anxiety. There was constant shouting—lots of Luigis and Ginos yelling to pass the grated cheese. I found out the hard way that dandelion soup is a diuretic. But as most children do, I acclimated.
Except.
There was one agenda item I never made peace with. When dinner was over, my stepfather would whistle, then make a circular motion with his pointer finger and nod towards the kitchen. In his caveman language, he was herding the women to clean and get dessert ready.
Even though I’d yet to hear of Rosie the Riveter or Virginia Woolf, the twister-finger move enraged me. While the women scrubbed plates and put on coffee, I sat glued to my chair and glared at the men. I felt one part traitor to my sex (shouldn’t I help?), one part defender of my sex.
Giuseppe and Gino thought my machismo was cute.
Then and there I decided that when I grew up, I’d be THE MOST INDEPENDENT WOMAN EVER.
I promised myself that no man would ever shepherd me towards the kitchen, or anything domestic for that matter. My husband would do the laundry and clean the bathtub. He would take orders from me. Hell, he’d even raise the kids while I pursued my rewarding career. Not only would I wear the pants, I’d wear the jock strap and the strap on.
(I really hated that fucking finger twirl.)
So now it’s twenty years later and guess what? I recently got exactly what I wished for. Right before I was about to leave my job so I could spend more time with my two-year-old son, my husband Chuck was laid off. He’s been a stay-at-home dad for the last year, and he loves it. He does the laundry and cleans the bathtub (with some not-so-subtle prodding). He grocery shops and goes on play dates. He bugs me for adult conversation and tells me I don’t know how much work it is to stay home.
He is such a Mr. Mom I sometimes feel I’m in a same-sex marriage—or at least that we’ve switched roles so entirely that I’m going to wake up and find I’ve grown a beard.
Unwanted facial hair aside, what’s my problem, right? I have a husband who participates in both the household and parenting, one that is ready with the wipes before I’ve even had a chance to realize my son needs a wipe down.
The problem is that I hate it. I feel upside-down. I don’t want to win any more bread. I don’t want the stress of being financially responsible for my family. Most of all, I miss my son. Utterly and completely. The ideal life of empowerment and emasculation that I’d envisioned for myself as a child (and subsequently as a young woman who took way too many Women’s Studies courses) isn’t so ideal after all.
What I’ve come to realize this last year is this: Jock straps itch, and strap ons come in terrible colors. At this point in my life, I’d rather don an apron—just without the damn whistle-point.
