I have a sister who thinks that just because I wanted a driveway that came with a house,  and that I live in a neighborhood with my husband and daughters, that my life is somehow the mirror of Stepford.  As in Stepford Wives, that creepy story about how all the women in the neighborhood become transformed by some evil genius doctor who, for the benefit of the husbands, create the ‘perfect wife’ for the ‘perfect life.’

Disclaimer here.  I do happen to have a fence made of white pickets. 

Moving on.  Come closely here, so I can whisper.  What was that movie, where the kid whispers hoarsely, ‘I see dead people?’  Yeah, that voice, only insert the words here ‘I do my husband’s laundry.’  That’s right people.  And I fold his clothes, and put them away neatly in his drawers.  I make his dinner, usually timing it so it’s piping hot and on the table when he breezes through the door at the end of the day.  If I’m lucky, my girls have even helped me set the table.

In the mornings, I set his reading glasses on the table beside his coffee and his paper.  I even admit to (inserting warning here, reading further might really freak you out…. close your eyes for the next part, if you don’t think you can take it….. okay, consider yourself warned) ironing his jeans. 

Is he spoiled?  Am I Stepford?  Wait a second.  Come to think of it,  there does seem to be a week or so some years back, that I simply can’t account for.  Maybe I was whisked away in the middle of the night, and returned, post ‘treatment’ with a stash of aprons and cleaning supplies.

Oh yeah.  I forgot to add, though I’m sure it’s assumed - I wear aprons when I’m cooking, nine times out of ten.  Big deal! I’ve even been known to whistle when I’m loading the dishwasher after supper, while he’s relaxing in his recliner in the other room.  Is this why my sister, who I believe views herself as some kind of morph between Janis Joplin, Sheryl Crow, and Bette Midler in The Rose, thinks I’m Stepford?  How come?

When she comes over, she laughs, enjoys the company, is treated graciously, and then drives off alone, down the road, out of sight, back to the hills of the outskirts of Nashville, where she and her boyfriend live their childfree by choice, unsuburban version of their American Dream. 

And I’m fine with that.  Really! Whatever makes people happy, as long as it’s creating no harm to others,  is pretty much okay by me.  So how come the reverse isn’t true?  How come I’m the one ‘setting the women’s movement back untold years’ by ‘spoiling’ my husband?

Who cares?  That’s bull I say.  I take care of him.  He takes care of me.  And we both take care of our children.  If that’s Stepford, sign me up.