The Burning Bra of Freedom

When I was a freshman in college I had my life all mapped out. I would graduate, get a job as a high powered journalist, spend a few years working as a foreign correspondent, and then maybe get married, have a kid and write for an edgy political magazine. Of course, life doesn't always follow a plan, and before I knew it I found myself married with a baby on the way. My husband had a good job and saw no reason for me to continue working.

"Why not be a stay-at-home mom?" he reasoned with me. "Day care is expensive, and besides, wouldn't you rather be home with our son if we can manage it financially?"

Hmm. How could I respond to that logic? Yes, I knew day care was expensive, and yes, I liked the idea of being home with my baby. But what about MY career?

"I don't know," I told him hesitantly. "I never pictured myself as a homemaker."
"I really think it's important for one parent to stay home," he said.

I finally made the decision to give it a try. My maternity leave was ending soon and I informed my employer that I would not be returning to work. The next few years passed by in a blur. I grudgingly admitted that we'd made the right decision. Who can resist seeing her child's first steps or hearing his first words right as they happen? I was the one who kissed every boo-boo, nursed every cold, heard every story and saw every wondrous moment first hand.

But still, some days I wondered what it would be like to have the freedom of a career. What would it be like to not be tied down to a house and laundry and cooking?

When my second child, a daughter, was born, I had the stay-at-home mom thing down pat. By this time, my older child was in school and I had settled into a cozy routine. This homemaker thing was working out okay. I didn't allow myself to dwell on the what-could-have-beens. However, sometimes a person needs a little validation, a reassurance that she's done the right thing, made the right choices. For me, that moment came on a Thursday morning in April.

My two-year-old was napping and my son was at school. I had laid out the ingredients for a casserole on the counter. I figured I could prep everything during the peace and quiet of the late morning so that at dinnertime I could just throw it into the oven. I was seven months pregnant with my third child and experiencing the typical annoyances of late pregnancy, namely hot flashes. Every burner on the stove was on, and the kitchen was rapidly becoming as hot as the face of the sun. I was sweating, getting nauseated and about ready to scrap dinner when it dawned on me. I had the house all to myself. Not another soul was present except my napping daughter. The blinds were closed. I was hot, and in a glorious moment of inspiration I tore off my stifling sweatshirt. Reduced to only a bra and maternity jeans, I felt free.

Something came over me that morning. I cooked like there was no tomorrow. Beside the casserole, I made cornbread, a pie, blackberry cobbler and even a double batch of brownies. At one point I almost burned my bra on a hot burner and giggled. This surely wasn't the kind of bra burnings that most people would associate with a "free" woman! If only the feminists could see me now - pregnant belly, barefoot, topless, cooking over a hot stove. And I'd never felt FREER!
When everything was cooked, baked, and cooling I sat down at the kitchen table.

Suddenly, my life made sense to me. For eight years, I was under the mistaken impression that I'd traded my freedom for an apron and a diaper pail. How wrong I'd been! The day I became a stay-at-home mom was the day I'd really gained my independence. Who but I (along with my husband) made all the important decisions in regard to my children? If I wanted to "take the day off" and take my kids to an amusement park, whose permission did I need? What use is "freedom" if it can only be enjoyed during two weeks of vacation?

There are those who insist that stay-at-home-moms are the backbone of society. Maybe we are, but there are days when we feel more like the packhorses of the world. Sometimes we might even resent those women in high heels toting briefcases who head out into the world to negotiate important contracts or write for edgy political magazines. But nonetheless, I secretly know the truth. I can also say with certainty that had my life followed my original plan, this jewel of a secret would have been forever lost to me. Thankfully I was enlightened on a Thursday in April when a hot flash sparked a fire in my soul. Because when everything is said and done, the real truth is this; true freedom means being able to cook topless in a hot and stifling kitchen.