Tag Archives: family

Being A Housewife Today Gets A Bad Rap, But Here’s What Women Have To Say

It wasn’t that long ago that women had little choice but to become a housewife.

Up until the 1950s and ’60s, there were very few professions that were open to women. Now, though, that’s not the case at all, and women dominate all types of industries. However, some still choose to be a stay-at-home housewife and mother.

It’s a matter of personal preference, but it gets a bad rap all the same. Housewives are often accused of being “lazy” or “unmotivated,” but what’s it like to actually be one? Here’s what ten real-life housewives have to say.

1. “I am not making money but I am contributing to something way bigger than me and making a difference in lives. I couldn’t be happier. Plus I am available for my daughter anytime and still am able to take care of the home. I really do often feel like I have it all…By the way, no we are not wealthy. We have found that we can live with a lot less than we used to think.”

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(via Tiffhoney)

2. “I LIKE being a housewife…I like cooking dinner and keeping our house clean and running. I like taking care of my daughter all day. I LIKE IT. I wish everyone would stop acting like I’m being oppressed or I’m bringing women down. It seems like people don’t really believe that women like me really like our situations. Stop feeling sorry for me! This is the role I’ve chosen and I’m happy!”

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(via jellyfishlove)

3. “I am a housewife, recently transplanted from Salt Lake City, UT, to Mountain View, CA. I stay at home all day while my husband is at work. I make no income and am fully dependent on him financially. I am 23 years old and perfectly content with this lifestyle.”

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(via washichiisai)

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4. “I’m a stay-at-home mom of three kids, which is awesome. The housework though bores me to tears. I can’t imagine just doing that.”

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(via bug_mama_G)

5. “I made the choice to be a stay-at-home mom/housewife as well. I’ve had people gasp and say ‘how very 1950s of you’ with an eye roll. Seriously? I’m sorry this is what works best for MY family…Don’t look down on me for being able to stay home and choosing to.”

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(via BrandyieSavage)

Read More: 5 Parenting Habits We’re All Guilty Of Doing…And Why We Should Stop Them

6. “I am a feminist and I decided to be a stay-at-home mom when our baby was born…My complaint is when people think being a stay-at-home parent is so easy. I hear a lot of ‘what do you do with all your free time?’ Really? I’d like to know if the people who ask that also ask their nanny/daycare that question!”

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(via gingerfied)

7. “People just don’t understand. My husband has said, if you want to work, then we’ll figure it out. If not, then great. He gives ME the choice for what works for me and our family. And to an extent, that’s enough. Just knowing that I have the options. And it does mean a lot to me that I CAN stay home (with our soon to be first). Ultimately, it’s our family decision.”

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(via rightsidejane)

8. “I was a stay-at-home mom for eight years before I rejoined the workforce. I got to see my kids’ first steps, hear their first words. I was able to experience so much that I would have missed out on if I had gone back to work right away…These are people that YOU made going on to make their own way in the world through the guidance that you have given them. There is no higher calling, in my opinion, than that. To me, that is what feminism is about, making your own choices.”

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(via seeingredagain)

9. “I work much harder at home than I do when I go to my outside of the home job, and I enjoy it more. I feel like I’m making the lives of my family better when I’m at home. When I’m at work I feel like anyone can do what I do, I’m not unique or special but at home I feel like I am making a difference.”

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(via Iwantbubbles)

Read More: Kids Do The Darndest Things And If We Adults Did Them, We’d Never Hear The End Of It

10. “It’s a pleasure to be at home. It’s not gender-determined, either. My husband and I talked about the situation years before we had kids. I was talking about pursuing my doctorate degree at the time. If I had, I would probably be making more money than my husband, and would be the working one. It was just important to us that the kids have someone at home with them…whether father or mother, no big deal.

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(via tankerraid)

Thank you, housewives, for speaking out! It’s about time people realized that it’s just as oppressive to tell women they can’t stay at home as it is to give them no other choice.

Read more: http://www.viralnova.com/truth-about-housewives/

My Grandfather Rests On A Hill That Leads To Heaven

I fought sweat and tears to bury my grandfather in the mountains of Jamaica, his last home.

Digging my grandfather’s grave Aaron Edwards

When someone dies in Accompong Town, in the hills of central Jamaica, neighbors dig the grave because there is no one else to do it.

If you ask someone for directions from the airport, you might hear heavily accented Jamaican Patois variations of “follow de sign dem” or “up de way dere, ‘round de back”; we are hours from Montego Bay or Negril. Here, black men in tattered hats and makeshift du-rags sift through weeds and heavy earth to make way for my grandfather’s exit into the ground. As they dig, swelling choruses of old spirituals waft through the air, graced with the salty scent of pimento seeds.

Mud and plaster is pulled to and from the graveyard atop the steep hill that’s overlooked the town for centuries. Goats find their way into the fray and follow along behind the hearse, the funeral band of schoolchildren playing drums, and the SUVs carting family to the final point.

It’s an uncomfortable procession — a disorienting mess of sweat, tears, and sun that somehow ends in solace.

Accompong Town is a rural village of around 2,000 people, tucked away up roads with no names, some roads with two names, and, for a mile-long stretch, what seems like no road at all. There’s a small internet cafĂ©, some battered but charming stores where you can buy coconut milk, plantains, and SIM cards, a primary school, brightly painted houses scattered unevenly among bushes and unpaved dirt paths, and a few friendly dogs. Most things you eat, you grow.

For most of my life it was little more than a dream, somewhere my body had once been but my mind hadn’t quite settled on. From the children’s table at Thanksgiving every year, my family’s chatter about this place resembled that of a storybook narrator waxing poetic on a forgotten kingdom. My family has roots here going back generations  —  the children of Africans marooned on the Jamaican island during the slave trade who built their own communities in the hills and fought for their independence from the British.

I was 7 or 8 years old the last time I came to Accompong, and my only memories of the place were the bumpy car ride up and splashes of color on the walls of houses. The few times I remember dreaming about the town, I dreamed of reds and blues and bugs — some of the biggest mosquitoes I have ever seen.

For this trip, at 22 years old, I pack the best version of summer clothes I own: two pairs of barely worn light-brown khakis, and a few loose-fitting linen shirts that had gathered dust in the back of my closet in favor of preppy, Manhattan-friendly button-downs.

To make the journey up the hill to the graveyard in Accompong is to walk with pain emblazoned on your face, to march against the sun toward God and to trudge with swollen feet as thumps of resounding drums goad the spirit on.

Heat drapes in waves over our somber caravan and funeralgoers use the green-tinted funeral programs as fans to keep cool. A smiling portrait of my grandfather, an entrepreneurial businessman who would wear a three-piece tweed suit and loafers in any heat, is on the program’s cover page. A river of those green programs flap ahead of me as we inch up the path from the church.

Neighbors who see me walking alongside my American family but knew the man on the funeral programs would have little indication that I was his grandson. A familiar face in his life, I’m now a stranger to most of the people around me in his death.

I’m flanked by my mother and her sisters. We lock arms, as if saying to let go would mean falling back down the hill, or into a full realization of what we are about to do. The man who helped bring our family to New York City from Jamaica, the man whose affinity for spaghetti westerns, games of dominoes, and slightly scratched reggae records superseded most things in his life on Friday nights, is making his ceremonious departure.

If he were walking with us, he would deliberately trail about 20 paces behind the last person in the group. Alphonse Edwards, born on May 7, 1940, took his time in his suits and cufflinks and his gait was equal parts languid and present. In his youth, I was reminded, he was smooth with women. In his old age, he once reminded me, he never lost it. My mother wrote in his obituary that he “wasn’t perfect, but made perfect when our Lord called [him] home.”

My grandfather’s home Aaron Edwards

My grandparents were both born in Jamaica (the island) and moved to Jamaica (in Queens, New York) in 1967 to raise my mother and her siblings. After moving back to the island around 2008, my grandfather would take walks up and down this hill with my grandmother, Norma, for exercise until it was no longer healthy for him. Neighbors talked a lot about his rewarding smile and how “wherever Norma went, Mr. Edwards went with her.”

My grandparents’ house, which they began building shortly before moving back to Accompong Town, stands in a clearing at the foot of a steep winding path. It’s a modest, mid-construction home with a small garden and pig shed out front. There’s a large tarp draped high over the house’s entrance and held up by sturdy bamboo, the Accompong version of a garage.

Through the front door is a small staircase, each step adorned with stacks of portraits, magazines, books, and mementos with the titles peeping out from under the organized chaos: Chemical Principles, Evangelical Commentary, The Unique Woman, African-American Religious Studies.

Next to an old black-and-white photograph of my grandfather is a small wooden block with words painted on it in white:

“The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”

A few days before the funeral, it’s becoming more apparent that the father of this house is gone forever. There are no spaghetti westerns playing from the bedroom, and no happy clinking of dominoes. But he’s still alive in the air and in the trees and in the mud and in the books on the staircase.

The mother of this house, a short woman with warm brown eyes the color of her skin, is sitting in the living room, wrinkled fingertips rolling over one another in her lap, shiny with the remnants of tears.

She looks in my direction. “Come here, my son.”

I hear the weight of generations on that phrase. It plays over in my head. “Come here, my son.” I walk to the couch and sit next to her. I’m nearly twice her size, but she wraps her arms around me as I slouch into her shoulder. The air is muggy and the warmth of her arms feels like home against my crumpled linen shirt.

My eyelids start to sink, and I can feel the soft vibrations of her voice over my head. Finding words where there are none to say, my grandmother is whispering a prayer.

The center of town Aaron Edwards

As our walk continues, I start to wonder if my grandparents saw things on the path the way I saw them. I notice my mind beginning to wander.

There’s something numbing about the drums beating as we approach the grave; hearing unfamiliar sounds in an unfamiliar place only makes everything feel more foreign. My eyes dart back and forth as the drums pick up in frequency, and I feel my knees buckle just a few steps from where we would soon place my grandfather’s casket.

I stop in place on a balding patch of grass as others continue to move on — paralyzed from what feels like an unrelenting sickness. Some might call it fear, some might call it sadness, but in that moment it is the chilling sensation of being alive in a graveyard preparing to accept the owner of its newest shrine — like a cube of melting ice hitting the center of a cavity.

Someone — maybe a relative, maybe a townsperson or even a stranger — grabs my shoulder and helps me move forward. Everyone on the hill seems overtaken with the equalizing force of grief. But somehow, crying here is more unusual than cathartic. In this town, surrounded by people who had never seen my face, I feel like I am betraying their space by crying onto their ground. In these moments before stepping up to the hilltop, tears are all I can muster.

Time, which before moved at the pace of thick air, speeds up once we are in place around the grave. Men begin to lower the casket and the town’s pastor gently touches the same shoulder someone nudged to keep me moving earlier. The only thing left to do, I thought to myself, is to walk back. After hugs and nods and a dinner of curry goat and rice in the nearby community center, the group makes its way back to where the procession began: the family home.

My family tells me that Accompong and that house in the clearing is my home away from home, a place where I could one day bring my future husband and children or a place I could choose to grow old. The time I spent saying good-bye to my grandfather there made that seem like more of a reality.

I put him to rest in the mountains, and I left a piece of my soul there. One day, I’ll come back for it.




Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/aaronedwards/my-grandfather-rests-on-a-hill-that-leads-to-heaven

Here Are 31 Reasons Why Lame Dads Rule The World.

Dads are great, but lame dads are even better. At least as far as the world of internet humor is concerned. There 31 dads have the whole parenting thing nailed down: that perfect balance of heroism, awesome-ness, and earth shattering embarrassment for their children.

1.) “Do you feel a draft?” – Dad.

2.) Amazing save, dad style.

3.) The true meaning of throwback Thursday.

4.) Some dads never grow out of it.

5.) Those moves, so smooth.

6.) This feels staged…

7.) Spreading fatherly holiday cheer.

8.) There’s got to be a hilarious story behind this picture.

9.) It’s the only way to stop the tech support calls.

10.) He could be onto something here.

11.) Can you guess what his name is?

12.) That one will be in the yearbook baby photo section. I guarantee it.

13.) Getting them started early. “Hadouken!”

14.) Dads are busy people. Who has time to buy new cards?

15.) Thanks for letting me know…I guess.

16.) Ready to do battle with the bug army.

17.) “My beer was right here when I fell asleep. Where did it go?”

18.) We are not amused.

19.) Getting exercise together is important.

20.) Not every dad is very handy.

21.) Everyone’s favorite fictional dad, Hal from Malcolm in the Middle.

22.) Umm, certainly not the best life advice.

23.) Ok this is actually awesome.

24.) In his own world.

25.) Reflexes like lightning.

26.) Sleeping dads are easy victims for their daughters’ creativity.

27.) The pun master.

28.) Dad actually looks better here.

29.) Priorities.

30.) Look at those legs.

31.) That’s gotta be the oldest one in the book.

Make sure to call your dad and thank him for not being this lame… but before you do, share this post by clicking below.

Read more: http://viralnova.com/lame-dads/