In the evenings my father often calls and asks what I’m defrosting for dinner. He chuckles, thinking this is funny.
There is quite the generation gap between my parents and my husband and me. My dad is a meat and potatoes man. My mom cooks with a crock pot; she plans meals for days. I, on the other hand, can often be found staring blankly at the refrigerator at 6 p.m. wondering how I can make a meal out of ground beef and cottage cheese.
Her dinners are well rounded – a small salad, potatoes, vegetables, and a main course. They even have fresh bread. And this is not just a post-retirement phenomenon for them. This is a way of life.
Now I’m not bitter over this discrepancy in our lives, I’m just perplexed. Although she never says so directly, I know my mother thinks I should try to change my evil ways, repent for my sins. For Christmas I got a waffle iron, for my birthday a small crock pot to sit beside my larger one on the shelf. Apparently she thought it was the size of my crock pot that was holding me back.
Walking with me down this path to anarchy is my faithful husband, who is grateful for anything I put in front of him – no matter how long it took me to prepare or what side dishes do or don’t come with it. He even thanks me for dinner when we’re done. I love this man beyond words.
When I share these glimpses into my life with my girlfriends they assure me that their homes are more like mine than like my mother’s, so why does this bother me? Why do I have this nagging guilty feeling that I’m not doing enough for my family?
Our spontaneous eating lifestyle seemed fine when it was just my husband and me, but now we’re somebody’s parents and I feel inadequate. I’m not June Cleaver, Clair Huxtable or even
Marge Simpson.
I’m not sure why we feel the need to compare ourselves to these unrealistic images of motherhood. But it seems as though most of my friends who are young moms feel as though we are missing the boat in some way. The dinners aren’t fancy enough, we eat out too much, the whites aren’t as white as they should be, and the kids may go a night or two (or three) without baths.
So what will our kids think in thirty years when they are struggling new parents? Are we doing them a disservice by not having the cleanest house on the block? Are they better or worse off because we spend our evenings sitting on the floor building blocks with them instead of worrying about the building blocks of protein in their diets?
After much soul searching, contemplation with my fellow moms, and even a little reflection with God, I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t really care. I do the best I can, I love my family, and the rest will take care of itself.
I’d elaborate more, but I have to go. The pizza delivery man just pulled in the driveway.
Shelly Belcher lives in McMurray with her husband and one year old daughter.
