I got this from my mom it was " Chicken Soup fror the Soul" email....
I thought it was great and wanted to share a mans perspective of his SAHW
My Wife Doesn't "Work"
By Gary Lautens
Is there anything more embarrassing today than being
married to a woman who doesn't "work?"
Take Jackie.
She weaves, spins wool, attends classes twice a week
at art college and is currently putting together a seven-
foot tapestry she designed for the living room. She also
whips up a hundred meals a week, irons a dozen shirts,
waxes and washes the floors, walks the dog and throws a
dinner party once a week.
But she doesn't "work."
She feels a minimum of two foreheads a week (to see if
they're warm), listens to enough homework to get a degree
from Oxford, runs the family budget, finds things in the
basement no other living human being can find, reminds
Richard to comb his hair every morning, cheers up Jane when
she gets a zit on her face and refinishes furniture.
She does the shopping, locates the bargains, washes
gym stuff, keeps track of everybody's underwear, answers
family mail, makes certain nobody leaves a ring around the
bathtub and takes care of minor medical problems.
But she doesn't "work."
She cuts hair, cleans the filter on the furnace, clips
the dog's nails, provides waltz lessons for male members of
the family, vacuums, puts treats in school lunch bags for a
noonday surprise, hangs up coats, rubs feet when they get
cold, provides laughs whether needed or not, removes
splinters, gives instruction on the application of eye
shadow, announces if it's a boot day, smiles through the
recounting of old Monty Python skits and files class
photographs.
She doesn't let anyone out of the house without a hug;
she tucks Jane into bed every night (even though Jane is
fourteen and almost as big as her mother); she knows the
postal rates, moves sofas, listens solemnly when someone in
the house says he or she is going to be Prime Minister, a
famous athlete or just an astonishing detective (Richard's
current ambition); she hangs pictures (eighty on our one
wall), sews on buttons, visits art galleries.
But "work"? I'm afraid not.
Jackie lengthens jeans, unplugs plumbing, remembers to
serve spaghetti once a week (the kids' favorite), picks out
newspaper items that might make columns, does thirty sit-
ups every morning to stay trim, explains patiently to
Richard why he can't wear the same shirt eighteen days in a
row and makes Christmas cards.
Mind you, she doesn't jog three times a week now, act
as lifeguard at the Y, or take German at night school, and
her university class on great books is over.
But she did broadloom Jane's bedroom, make our front-
room coffee table (from an old dining-room suite), and
(just last week) figured out how to replace the bulb in our
slide projector when Daddy had failed.
That is, unfortunately, beside the point.
Jackie does not go to an office, perform brain
surgery, drive a truck, belong to a union, type up letters,
sell real estate, host a TV show or even wrestle.
In short, she doesn't "work."
Mind you, she did "work" the first three years we were
married and trying to get a start, but she quit a month or
two before she had Stephen.
So she's just a homemaker, wife and mother now.
Perhaps one day when the kids are a little more grown
up, Jackie will "work" again, but in the meantime, I'm
afraid she's too busy.
I thought it was great and wanted to share a mans perspective of his SAHW
My Wife Doesn't "Work"
By Gary Lautens
Is there anything more embarrassing today than being
married to a woman who doesn't "work?"
Take Jackie.
She weaves, spins wool, attends classes twice a week
at art college and is currently putting together a seven-
foot tapestry she designed for the living room. She also
whips up a hundred meals a week, irons a dozen shirts,
waxes and washes the floors, walks the dog and throws a
dinner party once a week.
But she doesn't "work."
She feels a minimum of two foreheads a week (to see if
they're warm), listens to enough homework to get a degree
from Oxford, runs the family budget, finds things in the
basement no other living human being can find, reminds
Richard to comb his hair every morning, cheers up Jane when
she gets a zit on her face and refinishes furniture.
She does the shopping, locates the bargains, washes
gym stuff, keeps track of everybody's underwear, answers
family mail, makes certain nobody leaves a ring around the
bathtub and takes care of minor medical problems.
But she doesn't "work."
She cuts hair, cleans the filter on the furnace, clips
the dog's nails, provides waltz lessons for male members of
the family, vacuums, puts treats in school lunch bags for a
noonday surprise, hangs up coats, rubs feet when they get
cold, provides laughs whether needed or not, removes
splinters, gives instruction on the application of eye
shadow, announces if it's a boot day, smiles through the
recounting of old Monty Python skits and files class
photographs.
She doesn't let anyone out of the house without a hug;
she tucks Jane into bed every night (even though Jane is
fourteen and almost as big as her mother); she knows the
postal rates, moves sofas, listens solemnly when someone in
the house says he or she is going to be Prime Minister, a
famous athlete or just an astonishing detective (Richard's
current ambition); she hangs pictures (eighty on our one
wall), sews on buttons, visits art galleries.
But "work"? I'm afraid not.
Jackie lengthens jeans, unplugs plumbing, remembers to
serve spaghetti once a week (the kids' favorite), picks out
newspaper items that might make columns, does thirty sit-
ups every morning to stay trim, explains patiently to
Richard why he can't wear the same shirt eighteen days in a
row and makes Christmas cards.
Mind you, she doesn't jog three times a week now, act
as lifeguard at the Y, or take German at night school, and
her university class on great books is over.
But she did broadloom Jane's bedroom, make our front-
room coffee table (from an old dining-room suite), and
(just last week) figured out how to replace the bulb in our
slide projector when Daddy had failed.
That is, unfortunately, beside the point.
Jackie does not go to an office, perform brain
surgery, drive a truck, belong to a union, type up letters,
sell real estate, host a TV show or even wrestle.
In short, she doesn't "work."
Mind you, she did "work" the first three years we were
married and trying to get a start, but she quit a month or
two before she had Stephen.
So she's just a homemaker, wife and mother now.
Perhaps one day when the kids are a little more grown
up, Jackie will "work" again, but in the meantime, I'm
afraid she's too busy.
