Page 39 of Good Days Bad Days
“I’d like that,” she says, her eyes the same blue as her grandmother’s.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, waving at the screen. “Now, get to work, young lady. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says with a little salute, then, breaking from her act, adds, “Love you, Mom.”
We used to say it all the time when she was little, easily, no effort. Every night when she went to bed, in the morning before school, sometimes even randomly while hanging around the house. But during her teen years it became more and more rare, and even then it sounded forced, hesitant, insincere.
But not tonight. Tonight, it sounds like she means it.
“Love you, too, honey.”
I drop the phone and click on the TV, refilling my glass and settling into the leather couch with my mom’s book next to me. I flip through the stations, pausing at a few late-night-show monologues.
I keep flipping till I speed past HFN, where I see a familiar face. Dino. I click backward, sipping on my freshly poured glass as Dino’s warm southern drawl fills the room. He’s helping a family of four who have triplets on the way maximize storage options in their small three-bedroom ranch-style home. I turn down the volume until I can’t makeout each word he’s saying but still get the calming benefits of his self-assured tone.
I pick upThe Classy Homemakerand open it to the next chapter, bookmarked with a photograph of the view of the lake from the land where our house now stands, my father and mother holding a shovel between them. My father has a large grin on his face, and my mother wears a formfitting top and bell-bottomed jeans that accentuate her waist.
I put the photo on the armrest and start to read.
Chapter 3
D. I. D.
A Recipe for Success
As a child, I decided to prepare a fancy dinner for my family to celebrate my father’s promotion. I saved my babysitting dimes for weeks leading up to the big event and went to the store to buy all the necessary ingredients from the recipe I had copied from a fancy French cookbook I found at the library. At the store, I carefully selected the ingredients and then brought them home to create the much-anticipated meal.
I placed every item into a bowl and swirled them together and then poured them into a large pan. The meal cooked into a thick, mushy paste that looked nothing like the image I remembered from the cookbook. My father pushed away his plate and my younger sister spit out her first bite, and I found myself crying on the back porch after dumping my hard-earned dinner into the pig’s trough.
I had the recipe, I had the ingredients, I had the pure desire to make a meal for my family. What went wrong?
I’ll tell you. When I wrote down the recipe, I only wrote down the ingredients I needed and their amounts, I didn’t think to read theinstructions explaining how to use them. So, instead of dipping the chicken into the egg whites and then coating them in flour to be fried in the oil, I mixed everything together at the same time with no thought to order or timing.
We’ve discussed having a desire to be a joyful homemaker and the reasons for taking your responsibilities as a wife and mother as seriously as your husband takes his role in the boardroom. But now it’s time to get to the nitty-gritty. It’s time for the “how” of housewifery. And it starts with three simple letters:DID.
Disposition, Image, and Drive.
This chapter will cover the first step in our recipe—Disposition.
A man comes home from work to a tidy house, a beautiful dinner, and clean and respectful children, but his wife is angry, perhaps bitter about the time and effort she’s put into the home while he’s off at work. Does this make a happy husband? No.
Having a joyful attitude is your first step toward success in your role in the home. Do you have a headache? Take an aspirin and then move on with your day. Have you received bad news? Wipe away those tears and find a new project to put your energy into. Never, ever allow your children or your husband to know you are having a hard time of things. This is your business and your business alone. Your husband doesn’t come home and tell you all the details of his workday, does he? No. And neither should you.
My God,I think, head in hand as I let my mother’s written words sink in. Perfection, that’s what she’s talking about. An image of happy perfection. What a load of bullshit. Is this who she used to be, my Classy Homemaker mother? Her headshot certainly looks that way. But is TV homemaker Betty really who she was, or was that an act, an act supported by a show and a station that hired her to look, act, and speak a certain way? My God, I hope this isn’t how I’m perceived by viewers.
I’ve started reading again when I hear my own voice coming from the TV. I look up and recognize the outfit I wore during a promo shoot before Christmas. It’d been a cold day in Southern Indiana and so I’drushed to get my jacket back on between takes. My cheeks are pink and my breath puffs out with each extended vowel.
“Will the Wilsons choose to relocate to this newly constructed two-story Craftsman?”
Then, the camera cuts to Ian, standing a foot to my left with his neatly trimmed (secretly dyed) black beard, warm brown eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair, parted on the side and trimmed close in a crew cut. His broad chest pushes against his buttoned red-and-blue flannel shirt, and my heart flip-flops at his deep baritone voice.
“Or will they choose to let us help give their home a ... second chance on ...”
“Second Chance Renovation,” our voices mingle together as the title card expands into the screen with details on dates and times. I reach for the remote and click the TV off.
I stare at the dark, blank screen.
I don’t know how to watch the two of us now that I know what he did, that in December he was flirting with a stranger while filming with me, while kissing me, while holding me in his arms as we made love, while I snuggled into him and let his breathing lull me into a deep, blissfully ignorant sleep.
