My name is Lynda and I am a housewife. That sounds like an admission of guilt and it feels that way too. When did housewife become a dirty word?
All the blogging advice articles tell me I should narrow my focus and pick a niche. That’s not how housewifery works. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, mistress of none.
I’m a voracious reader, mostly of literary fiction but I’ll often settle for Young Adult fiction that my teenagers leave lying around, cookbooks, glossy house magazines, backs of cereal packets…I’m likely to waffle on about anything interesting that crosses my path.
I learned to cook from my mother and my grandmother, both fine cooks and obsessive about good food. Fancy dinner parties are few and far between around here but we eat well. My children usually let me know which highs (and lows) are worth blogging.
When it comes to gardening I am more greenhorn than green-fingered but I remain optimistic. Growing flowers and food sustains me. Digging, dead-heading, weeding, seeding…these are the most deeply satisfying activities. My face is freckled and my fingernails are ruined but I love it.
When I’m feeling angry I clean and when I’m anxious I crochet. On rare days, when I’m feeling particularly energetic, I undertake overly ambitious home renovation projects.
All of these things fill the mind and the days of this housewife.
This is my place to let it out. My shout out to the universe. My barbaric yawp.
Here I am, holding the camera at arm’s length and praying for the miracle of a flattering photograph. This one’s not too bad; what I meet in the mirror every morning is much scarier.
Laugh at me, learn from me, despair of me, advise me but, please, be kind to me.