Paging Betty Friedan

This morning, I got up bright and early with the Hatchling, got us both dressed, brought us downstairs for breakfast, and then started getting ready for a morning playdate with J and M. This involved tidying up the house with the brand new vacuum I got for Christmas, after which I whipped up a quick coffee cake using my Grandmom’s recipe, and put on a pot of coffee. During the playdate, the moms socialized and caught up with one another while the two girls played with a toy kitchen and baby dolls.

Jesus. At what point, exactly, did I become a 50s housewife? Maybe I should put a roast in the oven and greet Mr. Squab at the door with his favorite cocktail when he comes home from a hard day at work. Except – GAH – he’s going to be late tonight, because he’s joining the BOWLING LEAGUE AT WORK. (That part is not even a joke.) Holy Christ. Before you know it I’ll be going slowly mad, popping tranquilizers and having a feminist conversion. Which I thought I had already DONE.

It’s not that I didn’t completely enjoy this morning. I did. And I looooooooooove my new vacuum. And it’s wonderful to be able to cook again on a regular basis. It’s just that sometimes I look around at my life and think, um, what happened? And are they going to revoke my membership in the pinko-feminist-leftie-academic club? BECAUSE I LIKE THAT CLUB. It has comfy chairs, a great library, and they mix the drinks nice and strong the way I like ’em. Please don’t kick me out. I’ll bake you some coffee cake!

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