Reaching for June

            As I towel dry my recently colored hair and contemplate my attire for the day, I come to realize most of my clothes seem to reflect a modern day June Cleaver. I have three fifties style dresses. Mind you, one is strapless and one is a halter, but the basic form is still there. There are Capri pants and knee pants of various colors hanging in my closet with matching heels and flats. Many times I can be found scrubbing out the bathtub or mopping the floor in one of these outfits.

            Today, I was on the kitchen floor scrubbing stains away with today’s latest miracle sponge. Followed by a bout of table sterilizing with a sanitary wipe guaranteed to kill ninety-nine percent of bacteria. Dusting will come right after window cleaning. Laundry has been going most of the day. The ironing will be done tonight after the children are in their beds. All the while I’m trying to think of what I haven’t done yet.

 In the back of my mind, the conversation I need to have with my son’s teacher at open house in just over a week is being refined. Supper is being planned as I try to remember all the witty things I wanted to put in a new article. Visions of June standing at the door waving to her perfect family enter every now and again.

            With hair still wet from the shower I had to squeeze in after my two-year-old went down for her nap, I point the electrician to the bathroom so he can replace the light fixture. Taking a break from my cleaning, I sit at my computer to do some writing and catch the last fifteen minutes of my favorite soap opera. My hands are dry from the cleaner I was using and I don't feel like hunting down the lotion. 

            The kids have long since been asleep and the ironing has not been done. I plunged out a stopped up toilet. My husband’s birthday cheesecake in the fridge now has a couple more pieces missing. A movie makes noise in the background.

            I used to watch June Cleaver in syndication after school. Never to be like her was the goal of my generation. Fifteen years later, I am comparing myself to this icon of the fifties. She haunts my shadows. Daily I see that I cannot do all the things I think I should be able to.

            For years, I lived against the housewife image. I worked long hours and depended on sitters and television to raise my children. Even when there was no job to go off to, I did what I felt like doing and left the rest. The floor didn’t have to be mopped daily or even weekly. There was no reason for my home to be spotless.

            I don’t know if it was boredom or good advertising, but I began to clean. At first it was just a little here and there. Some days it the carpet would get vacuumed. Other days the kitchen would get swept. If it were a good day, I would mop. Slowly, I cleaned more and more. Laundry would get started then I would dust and vacuum. Later I would scrub all the cabinets and tables.

            For a long time, I thought the styles in my closet were just a reflection of my need to fit in. If it was on the rack at the local department store, I wanted it. Magazines flooded in with the latest styles just waiting for me to wear to a school party. For lack of anywhere else to wear them, I would put them on just to go to the supermarket. Even with little to no make-up, I felt pretty.

            The more I work on meal plans, and party ideas, the more I realize I have overcome my need to break the typical housewife mold. I long to be able to keep my house spotless and be able to enjoy my family. June seemed to have it all. I have often wondered why I can’t, too. Then I recall that she is only an image created to entertain. I am a real wife and mother with real responsibilities.

            My son’s school shopping has been done with two weeks to spare. Coupons have been clipped for this week’s grocery shopping. Several lists are in my purse and head to cover various upcoming events. Conversations I will have in the next several days are played over and over in my head.  I won’t curl my hair. No one will see me greet my family from the front door with smiles and kisses. There will be no witty lines of wisdom to answer the questions of my children. I will do what I can and the rest will wait.

            Tomorrow I will wear one of the many June Cleaver resembling outfits hanging in my closet. Make up will probably not be a priority. I will not curl my hair, or even straighten it. Breakfast will come from a cereal box. Lunch will be quick but healthy. I will bargin shop and use coupons from store to store. The kids will nap. I will clean. My husband will go off to work without a packed lunch. Dinner will hit the table a little late. My son will do the kitchen chores. I will wind down with a movie and a drink. That will be my June day.

            June Cleaver never wore denim Capri’s that laced up the sides. I’m not sure she ever wore denim. Her sweaters were not cropped. Ward would have locked her in the house if she dared shop in a strapless dress or water the garden in a halter-top. Who knew how far June could come?  

Now she is a divorcee living with ex-husband-to-be number three. Her fresh vegetables come from the supermarket freezer. The dust under the sofa has been there for two years. No one has seen her on the porch unless she was yelling at her kids to get back in the house. She doesn’t own a mixer. All the desserts are low fat, fat free or fruit because she now struggles to maintain a steady weight. It doesn’t have to be her pre-pregnancy weight, just one that doesn’t jump five pounds at the site of a chocolate cake. If we pay close attention, we are all just reaching for June. 

A New Perspective

  When my cell phone plummeted to the bottom of the bay after an already eventful boating trip, I was hesitant to panic. After all, it was just a phone. That was until the next morning when I realized just how much I had actually lost in the cold salty water.

  Notes on the book I’m currently writing were stored in my notepad. Even though my service offers it, I never backed up my contact list. Some of those people had moved away leaving no other way to reach them. It was heart wrenching.

  The universe was telling something, but what? That I depend too heavily on my electronics? Or just that maybe I need to step back and get a new perspective on things? Oh and possibly that I need to back up everything else?

I asked the universe today, "Will this beach ever give me what I am looking for?"
It responded, "When you learn to be patient."