Hardships and All

On considering if I am a “Traditional Wife”

Back in the days of childbearing, with baby number seven.

The morning was soft, a blue light slipping through the curtains as I stretched. I heard the rolling crunch of gravel as the other adults in my household set out for their workdays in a carpool. The youngers were still sleeping, and as I padded to the bathroom I could hear our two cats in the hallway scrambling after one another.

A sip of water, a steep of green tea, a settling into my low plush rocker with my blue cashmere blanket and a Bible. I read slowly as I rolled a small rubber ball under the arches of my feet, and considered anew what benefit it was for Jesus to leave us after His resurrection. As I closed up my Bible and sat it upon my lap, I thought how cliche this looked: a homemaking, Christian mom, with a worn Bible and steaming mug in hand, snuggled in. If I were an Influencer Mom (whatever that really means), I’d take a photo, maybe only my hands showing. “Soaking in the Word this morning” or some such. But I’m not that. I’m just me. I haven’t even brushed my hair yet. Before rising, I managed a little bit of reading on Substack and came across an entire newsletter dedicated, it seemed at first glance (I could be wrong, still in pajamas and all), to sowing seeds of discord and doubt into some hashtag group of traditional wives.

Are they talking about me? Am I a traditional wife, I wonder? And if so, why? How did I get here?

It’s later in the morning now, and I decide to jot down my tasks, perhaps to answer what I do all day and whatnot. Perhaps it is my tasks that define the label? I begin with “head to the basement for toilet paper but get distracted by laundry switching and noticing that the little boy needs some new pants”. Then, before lunch: cleaned out junk drawer, considered if I have time for my online herbalist’s group meeting, trashed papers that were left on the counter, picked up stray socks and hairbands and Nerf gun bullets. Took out the bathroom trash, folded laundry, answered texts. Took out a hen from the freezer, and then discussed “killing chickens” (his topic) with my 6 year old who followed me everywhere I went talk talk talk talk talk talking. I saw dishes piling up in the sink and only gave them a nod as I put the cat food away and filled up the filtered water reservoir. I decided it wasn’t cold enough to stoke a wood fire.

Meanwhile, in the midst of my notetaking, my 9 year old with Down syndrome decided to pull things off the counter and laugh about it, Mommy distracted and all, including her little brother’s Lego creation. I encouraged her to jump on the rebounder instead, which she declined. I then decided on a rump roast for supper, began reheating leftovers for lunch, and rifled through my very unorganized herb supply looking for the astragalus to add to the broth already going. My 15 year old with Down syndrome was listening to The Paper Kites on vinyl, and as I went to flip it over, I noticed and took out a houseplant because it obviously has no will to live. Finally, we all gathered to listen to our DVD on the proverbs for the day, but instead of knitting at that time, I picked out a smooshed banana from the bottom of my sock and tried to keep colored pencils out of the labrador’s mouth.

So I looked at my notes and wondered, is this what a “traditional wife” does? Am I doing it right? Or, if I even ask that question, does that mean my soul been hijacked by some malevolent force to turn me into a slavish puppet to keep my husband’s castle running while he rules All Powerful and Patriarchyish? I can almost hear him “mwahaha-ing” now. From his money-making more-valuable career outside the walls of the house, of course. I almost snort into my coffee.

I understand there are women who have been traumatized by horrible abuse in their domestic sphere. I am thankfully not one of them, so cannot attach my homemaking or wiving with such anguish, but neither should women in those situations cast our entire human history of feminine nurturing as its first cause. I also know there are men who suffer greatly from their own wives; presumably my husband is not one of them but you would have to ask him. So I consider instead the story I tell myself about my life: that I am profoundly grateful to have a faithful and hard working husband, that I am in a warm and comfortable home, that each of my children are a great blessing to not only myself, but to the world. I suppose, then, it is true that what we look for, we will see, but because the eyes of man are never satisfied (Pro 27:20), we may look elsewhere for confirmation of the stories we already tell ourselves and live in.

In this derision of traditional homemaking, I generally find that contentious women flock with contentious women (perhaps a badge of honor, I don’t know), and the strife that is kindled rarely (ever?) leads to peace, joy, kindness, love, gratefulness, and a peaceable spirit. It’s hardly the lifting up, exhorting, hope building, honest and helpful response to a woman who is struggling under the hard work—and it is hard work—of keeping a home and marriage. Anything worth anything is worth fighting for its wellbeing (and here I do include our own bodies and minds, we are a *part* of our family, not a *slave* to it). To be perfectly obvious, it is in doing the difficult things—that hard work, if you will— in life that memory and muscle is actually formed. No one said being a wife and homemaker was going to be easy, and those who deride it as such have never actually put their hands to that plow.

Be mindful of the stories you tell yourself or the flock that twitters away into your ears. Consider where they come from and if they are in alignment with Scripture (if that was a Full Onslaught Trigger there, therein lies your great trouble and opposition with God, the lover of your soul). Daily and deep drinking in the Word of God is a great check upon the lies the devil or even your own deceived heart sends, no matter how it is dressed up (even in Christianese).

Of course there are problems that come up in our homes and in our marriages; work to solve them. Pray and study the Bible. Ask for another viewpoint, ask for help. Stay humble—you might actually be wrong and need to hear a rebuke or two. Don’t work yourself to death in pursuit of some semblance of perfectionism—leave some socks on the floor (you know they’ll just have babies in the night anyhow). Only Jesus is your Master and Savior, not your husband. Remember that Jesus also took time to rest; He was never rushed and He didn’t help every single person or solve every problem while He walked the earth. Love to love your husband because you are a loving person and God has shed His love to you. You are not who you are because you’re some label or because of what you do; you are who you are because God created you to bear His image and to carry His Holy Spirit into a teeny tiny dark corner of the world in a specific time in history.

I decide, finally, that I don’t need the sticker of “traditional wife” or whatever other brand or category someone somewhere finds useful or of need to apply to me or my life. I already belong, first to my King, then to my husband, my family, and my home. I refuse the crumbs the doubt, and instead choose to feast at the banquet. At this moment, that means tossing my task list into the bin, serving a warm lunch to my littles, and falling in love once again with this life I have, hardships and all.