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To make the most of oneself is not to forsake one’s identity as a woman or as a mother. It is not to become an art monster if the monster in question is nothing but a drunk asshole. But it is also not to bend entirely, to flap hinge open to your children and your husband and the underwear that may be nestled behind a door, and give up the terrible, wonderful, furtive dream that is the self. To come second entirely, to be only mother, maid, cook, wife, is also not to make the most of oneself. One must learn how and when not to bend.

First of all, we are online since 2003 with years of experience!

Can you write my essay for me?

And yet, I am profoundly unfree.

Ah, my struggle, my damn daily struggle, which gets translated into everything including the novel I have been writing for three long years now, while taking care of my children and a busy husband. I have struggled with the demand not “go to work”, so I can write and take care of everything apart from earning serious money. I have been guilt ridden and now I am at the breaking point. How often have I sworn the same thing: I will never remarry if anything should happen to my beloved, I will never ever date a guy and get convinced to live together…..and being 55, there will be no more kids and yet, here I am, serving my family with love and squeeze the writing in the leftover hours. I just participated in a self publishing seminar and the first thing I learned is to take the writing so seriously as to give it a firm primetime schedule and not to waver from it. Now that my last kid is a junior at Highschool, I finally take the plunge. Its time, rain or shine. But the issue of women’s freedom, art-career or family, bread-job or writing/painting/anything creative remains. As long as there is no safe affordable childcare, a fair legal share of men’s and women’s work and family time, as long as there is a ever-growing demand by employers to be available 24/7 and no general wage for home-makers, stay at home moms or dads, so long nothing will change. My daughter swears never to have children, she is disgusted with the status and the options. And I am sad to say, I can hardly blame her. Thank you for this long lament, I hear you.

Tolstoy’s wife wrote in her journal:

Dee…THANK YOU ! Thank you for saying what I was first muttering then bellowing throughout my reading of this article . With additional ” ARE you fucking kidding me?? “s thrown in . How in the jesus do you describe a guy that …seriously ? – …leaves his nasty draws lying ON THE FLOOR ? Behind a damn DOOR ?? – for the maid to pick up you understand , as perfect for you etc?? Plus all the other stuff. I don’t believe I have ever …and I am past the half century mark…seen a worse case of denial , self-hatred , enabling or Doormat Syndrome in an otherwise bright , articulate young woman . Has this girl no FRIENDS ? Who might mirror to her what is actually going on ? Her interesting disquisition on women/ artists , time , Motherhood and the like simply disappears under an avalanche of what on EARTH is this girl permitting which any sensible reader must be thinking .

But when Watkins has a baby, her working life is thrown off-kilter:
“Nothing’s happening to me,” I bemoan to Annie. “I need to go shoot an elephant.”

I love you. So perfectly written.

My job when I am with my children is to have as few needs as possible so that I can meet theirs. It is my job to let my three-year-old dawdle on the potty of a Starbucks until he is sure he is done, even if I think I might shit my pants. It is my job to help him stop crying when he is overtired, even if I myself am so overtired I could cry. It is my job to be invisible to him.

You’ve written everything in this essay. I love it more than I am able to express.

Beautifully written and so precise. THANK YOU, just perfect.

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Effective Child-Centered Parenting (without spoiling them)

Thank you for this!
Beautiful beautiful writing.
Gives me so much to reflect on. Sometimes I believe I am lazy because I can’t make amazing things or anything happen with my scrambled brain in the little bit of time that my 8 mo old son is sleeping.
Our work is unappreciated, unseen, exhausting, sops our essence from us.
Damn men.
Damn our culture.
We need more help.