The Roo-girl had a dream recently.
In her words, a weird one.
In her dream, she went into a house. Was it our house? She wasn't sure.
In the house was a mom. Roo was clearly aware that it wasn't HER mom. This mom, she explained, was like a 1950s mom.
Donna Reed. June Cleaver. You know the type: perfectly coiffed hair, a lovely belted dress, pearls, the quintessential stay-at-home-bake-me-some-cookies-domestic-goddess mom.
Pretty much everything that I am not.
I don't vacuum in pearls. I pretty much don't vacuum.
I don't bake much anymore either. I used to. But somehow there isn't time these days.
And I am NOT a lovely belted dress person. The first thing I do when I get home from work is strip out of my business-casual clothes in favor of jeans and a sweatshirt.
Do I have guilt over this? Yes, over some of it. The domestic goddess part, for sure.
I wish I could be the kind of mom who had freshly baked brownies to greet my child after school.
I wish I could be the kind of mom who was THERE to greet my child after school.
But that has not been my lot in life. These days, with my non-newspaper new(ish) job, I get off work significantly earlier, but when Roo doesn't have cheer practice after school, she comes home to an empty house.
And that's been her world since the fifth grade, when she convinced me to stop making her go to the afterschool daycare until the stroke of 6 p.m.
So she tells me her dream of the 1950s mom, and I die a little inside.
And then she finishes the story.
"I told her I had to go," she recalls, "and she said, 'I'll be here when you get back.'
"I wasn't sure what she wanted from me. I thought it was really creepy."
Ok, then. The 1950s mom was creepy.
Perhaps that's because the 2010 daughter can't relate.
And I think that still makes me a little sad.
Crossposted at Mid-Century Modern Moms