Sometimes, well often, I am an awful wife. An awful 1950's wife that is.
There are often piles of laundry lying around clean and dirty often getting intermixed; a sink full of dishes, even after I swear they just got done; shoes, shoes everywhere, my husband's shoes, my shoes; the dog's toys strewn in the most unimaginable places (behind the toilet?); appliances crowding our counter tops, always in convenient reach but never in their rightful spot hidden away in the cupboards; and always there are pieces of clutter on my floors, tracks of dirt from my husband's boots.
Consequently I don't even have any babies to give me a good excuse for the lack of order. Only a dog, who I fawn over as if she is my baby.
And yet, my husband still loves me inspite of it all. I am so glad that the man I married is not from an earlier time when a women's role is to slave for her husband, to keep the house, the children, and the dog immaculately spotless. As a matter of fact he helps me with it.
I love that man.