Just finished an interesting book. It came up in conversation two weeks ago, and I hadn't heard of it...
It's called The Homemaker
by Dorothy Canfield. The book tells the story of a mother of three who is a desperately unhappy housewife. She spends her time obsessively cleaning and intimidating the children while her husband works as an accountant who has no hope of promotion and spends the day thinking about poetry.
Anyhow, he falls off neighbour's roof and breaks his back leaving him paraplegic. She goes out to work, he stays at home and looks after the kids, etc. OK, so I've rather brutally filleted the story, there is a bit more to it than that. But what makes it really stand out is that The Homemaker was written in 1924. In that context, there is as much emphasis on the shock of the married mother going out to work as there is on the shock of the father's accident.
It also made an interesting read as R started nursery last week. Oh, they grow up so fast/where has the time gone/seems like only yesterday etc.
One thing that children do provide is more of a sense of time passing. Having lost count (a little) of time passed since I broke my back, the fact that R was born four months later rather means that I can see how far I've come. These moments of reflection usually start with me thinking of her and end up being all about me. Isn't it always?
But time passing since my accident needs to be acknowledged every so often. How far I've come. How accomplished my wheelchair skills are. How I still stubbornly refuse help and end up upside down in people's hallways (sorry Gabby!). How much fitter I am. The hills I can now push up. And, inevitably, how much pain has become a part of everyday life.
That last one is depressing most of the time, although there is a slight upside, which is that on a good day I can congratulate myself on dealing with it so well. On a bad day I berate myself for being so spineless (ho ho) and not just going under the knife to get that sucka sliced and diced once and for all (See previous entry, if you're at all puzzled).
Still, how did we get on to that again? Never mind.
I am also throwing the odd brush at canvas again for the first time in 5 years. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but it's good to be taking that particular journey again. We are planning another open studio at the end of the month. So I'd better get a move on. I can't sit here all day and night writing this rubbish, so be off with yer. Go on, shoo!
It's called The Homemaker
by Dorothy Canfield. The book tells the story of a mother of three who is a desperately unhappy housewife. She spends her time obsessively cleaning and intimidating the children while her husband works as an accountant who has no hope of promotion and spends the day thinking about poetry.Anyhow, he falls off neighbour's roof and breaks his back leaving him paraplegic. She goes out to work, he stays at home and looks after the kids, etc. OK, so I've rather brutally filleted the story, there is a bit more to it than that. But what makes it really stand out is that The Homemaker was written in 1924. In that context, there is as much emphasis on the shock of the married mother going out to work as there is on the shock of the father's accident.
It also made an interesting read as R started nursery last week. Oh, they grow up so fast/where has the time gone/seems like only yesterday etc.
One thing that children do provide is more of a sense of time passing. Having lost count (a little) of time passed since I broke my back, the fact that R was born four months later rather means that I can see how far I've come. These moments of reflection usually start with me thinking of her and end up being all about me. Isn't it always?
But time passing since my accident needs to be acknowledged every so often. How far I've come. How accomplished my wheelchair skills are. How I still stubbornly refuse help and end up upside down in people's hallways (sorry Gabby!). How much fitter I am. The hills I can now push up. And, inevitably, how much pain has become a part of everyday life.
That last one is depressing most of the time, although there is a slight upside, which is that on a good day I can congratulate myself on dealing with it so well. On a bad day I berate myself for being so spineless (ho ho) and not just going under the knife to get that sucka sliced and diced once and for all (See previous entry, if you're at all puzzled).
Still, how did we get on to that again? Never mind.
I am also throwing the odd brush at canvas again for the first time in 5 years. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but it's good to be taking that particular journey again. We are planning another open studio at the end of the month. So I'd better get a move on. I can't sit here all day and night writing this rubbish, so be off with yer. Go on, shoo!
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