This morning I read the poem “The Patience of Ordinary Things” by Pat Schneider and teared up. It is probably mostly moving blues, but the lack of identity when we move to a new place always leaves me feeling like an object rather than a person. My identity shrinks down to two people who only know me as “wife” and “mom” and the work I do goes unnoticed unless I don’t do it. I work all day picking up the same messes over and over and make dinner and snacks and cups of apple juice, yet I feel like I am unseen. Like a table, or a cup.
It does take a kind of sturdy, patient love to just keep doing the same things every day, even though no one cares when you’re doing it right and are annoyed or infuriated when you do it wrong or don’t do it. And it’s exhausting to have others see me (and to see myself) as just a housewife. Doing housewife things. Being mom and wife and having nothing that is my own.
Whatever Comes Next 