Challenge #7 ~ The Hidden Housewife

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The bed felt so comfortable that evening. I nestled into it even more deeply with my book in hand. I relished these quiet, comfortable moments of travel. In the comfort of home, with the right words carefully selected, ordered and placed between two book covers, I could take off to far places. I could brave cold, snow-tipped mountains and delve into the deepest seas without a sniffle or a shiver. It was a small but generous reward after a long day. At that time in my life it took me a good 1.5 hours to get to work and another to get home, so in the evenings I made sure to gift myself with some peace and quiet.

My adventure was just beginning when a familiar smell stuck its head through the door and peaked into my room. Hesitantly, it drifted in and moved about. Startled I sat up suddenly as I observed it with incredulity.

“It can’t be.” I said to myself. Regretfully I peeled back the covers and placed my feet on to the shockingly cold, stiff ground. I quickly jumped up into my warm bathrobe and stepped lightly into the hallway. As I did I was met with the forceful smell of burning clothes.

“What is she thinking?” I wondered. “It’s 11 o’clock at night.”

Slowly and deliberately I walked down the hard, stone stairs. I passed the living room where my host father was watching TV. I watched for a second as the lights of the television danced on his face and across the walls.  Finally, I slipped down the stairs into the basement.

It was true. My nose did not deceive me.

“Hi Khadijah!” She greeted me so friendly as she stood there on the cold concrete floor, bent over her ironing board as she hot pressed work shirts for her husband.

“What are you doing? It’s late! Why are you ironing?” I asked, putting an extra portion of honey on my warm voice, hoping to mask my astonishment, exasperation and slight frustration.

“Well I was so busy today, I didn’t get around to it, so I thought I would do it now.”

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to cut her moonlight ironing adventure as short as possible.

“No, it has to be done a certain way, so that they do not get wrinkled when he sits in the car or in the office.” She patiently explained.

“But why are you doing it now?” I insisted. “Wouldn’t it be enough to do it tomorrow or another day? Doesn’t he have enough ironed at least for tomorrow?”

“Of course he does.”

“So why are you doing it now?” I persisted.

She looked at me. I looked at her.

“Go upstairs. Sit down next to your husband with a beer in front of the TV.” I demanded. “It’s late.”

She looked at me. I looked at her.

“You worked so hard all day. His work hours are over. Yours should be too. You deserve to relax and regroup.”

She looked at me. I looked at her. She finished the shirt and turned off the iron.

Satisfied that the battle had been won, at least for today, I crept back upstairs and snuggled under the blankets. They embraced me and seemed to ask where I had been.

Although I cracked open my book, looking forward to returning to those cold mountains and deep seas, it couldn’t hold up to the adventure I had just experienced. My mind began to wander over hills and through valleys, trying to find its way through the complex terrain of enoughness.

Housewives do not have the advantage of having their contribution and labor quantified as those who work in jobs that bestow paychecks or insist on sending you home after a certain amount of hours. Their home is their workplace and working hours can reach deep into the night, unseen overtime for the good of the family.

After that evening the smell of hot pressed clothing did not peak its head into my room again so late at night. Most evenings I could hear them laughing at the TV or moving between the living room and kitchen to refresh drinks and snacks. Sometimes all it takes is a little wake up call to pull us out of our trance, give us permission to relax and to acknowledge the hard work of one day.

The truth is we teach best what we need to learn most, and after all of these years, looking back at that moment in time, I am beginning to ask myself: In what areas of my life am I standing in the basement ironing instead of taking a seat at the table? Where am I hiding myself below ground instead of surfacing and standing in my unique power? Where is the fear of not being and doing enough keeping me from sharing my knowledge and gifts? Where am I waiting for an invitation instead of actively taking up my rightful place?

These are questions I can only answer with time and honest reflection. Still at this moment I would like to invite you to take a seat at the table, to laugh with me and to acknowledge the hard work of each day, to accept that our contributions are important and more than enough.

It was a privilege to be able to encourage my host mother to take a break and allow herself space for relaxation in the evenings. It was a joy to be a help to someone who had so often and so willingly helped me.

Thank you for reading!

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