Good Morning from my world...

There are eggs in the poacher, English muffins in the toaster, coffee brewing in the percolater (I always make too much), and water heating up for the green tea that I will consume voraciously as if my very life depended on it. There are my son's fresh strawberries that I sliced for him before the sun even rose, and his milk in his English porcelain Peter Rabbit mug.

And my response to these various circumstances is my question, when did I become this woman? And the even bigger question looms, at exactly what point did I begin enjoying being her? At what moment did the acceptance occur?

It wasn't very long ago that I began to turn the domestic corner. The first year of my marriage, however, I was miserable with not only the household chores, but the implication they held. "Servant. Slave. Loss of my potential." These words were circling in a constant holding pattern around my psyche. Every time I stood before the sink full of sudsy dishes, there was not a time that I didn't think, even on a superficial level, of slitting my wrists with a kitchen knife underneath the warm water. Wouldn't that be a dramatic statement against wifedom, I thought to myself with a smirk? I just couldn't chance it because I didn't think anyone would get it. And I wouldn't be around to explain it to them. So here I am, my life saved by my own sheer unwillingness for my symbolicly sardonic actions to be lost on others--and, for the record, my current house has a dishwasher.