Date of publication: 2017-07-09 09:02
How little kindness he shows his family! With us he is never anything but severe and indifferent. His biographers will tell how he helped the porter by drawing his own water, but no one will know that he never once thought to give his wife a moment’s rest, or his sick child a drink of water. How in 87 years he never once sat for five minutes by his sick child’s bedside to let me have a rest, or a good night’s sleep, or go for a walk, or simply sit down for a while and recover from my labours.
Or you may have to let go of your expectations about housework. Are you getting more satisfaction from picking up the underwear than from your writing? If not, you have choices: for example, have a clear conversation with your husband about what you 8767 re now choosing to stop doing, what you 8767 re asking him to start doing, what you 8767 re willing to change, and what you 8767 re willing to let go of. Then trust that he will do his part but be willing to let consequences to unfold if he doesn 8767 t. If he doesn 8767 t pick up his underwear, leave it there. Let the towel mold, let him run out of underwear if necessary just let go psychically and let it unfold as it will.
I recently had my first exhibition of my own artwork in a commercial gallery, entitled 8775 Mother Vision. 8776 I have three children, ages 8, 9 and 6. The ONLY reason why this happened, and I don 8767 t count that I had supporters, or that I was lucky, or that I was talented: the only reason is that I wanted it. I wanted it. I wanted it.
If only she hadn’t won celebrity so early and so easily. If only she had been blessed with Hemingway’s talent, had written her novel (and it had been any good), hadn’t succumbed to the easy life and money of Hollywood. If only she had married Mr. Right instead of lumbering herself with all those Mr. Wrongs. If she had had that baby…
It is rare to see it supposed that a female writer would have written more or better if she had had children, but that is exactly what Gottlieb suggests here: That to be an art monster on some level also requires that one become a monster, and perhaps the work of a lonely and sad monster is actually less robust than that of a psychologically healthy, happy, productive adult.
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I have never worried that the mundane world would muddy my celestial paws I’ve always been perfectly able to lick my stamps myself. In fact, I have been far, far too able. The older I get, the more I recognize the leveraging power of ineptitude. My husband can’t cook well I do the cooking. My husband accidentally shrinks a few sweaters I do the laundry. My husband can’t lactate the baby comes to New York. In his inability to do things, he is excused from labor. In my rush to excel, to shine, to be a good wife and mother, I have done nothing but ensure my labor will be lengthy and unpaid.
The novel Black Like Me was the most stimulating book I have recently read. I was taken aback by the cruelty the narrator experienced when he was black compared to the hospitality he found as a white man. Possessing the same occupation, clothing, wealth, speech, and identity did not matter when his skin was another color. Given that this was a non-fictional piece, my reaction was even stronger. The book made me favor equality of opportunity for all in every endeavor so others’ opinions of them are based on performance, not preconceptions.
To make the most of oneself. In the end, this seems to me the only thing truly worth aiming for. And in that sense, I am able to concede that my husband is right: I do not wish to be like Faulkner or Tolstoy. I do not want to be an asshole. And who knows what further greatness those men could have achieved if they had allowed their hearts to be broadened and deepened by their children? Who knows what interesting fissures in their worldview the humility of housework would have caused?
I had not known that I felt that way until I said it. It frightened me that I said it. That night at the party, I kept thinking about it, and on the flight home, I kept thinking about it, and no matter how I looked at that phrase I couldn’t make it any less true. If something disastrous were to happen and my husband were to leave me or die or simply vanish, I would never remarry. I actually cannot imagine even dating another man. Part of this is out of intense loyalty to my husband, but part of it is because the idea of cooking some idiot man dinner for the rest of my life makes my skin prickle with rage.