My mother loves her leisure time, which is funny, because, without fail, whenever the subject of stay-at-home moms comes up, or whenever I start moaning about work, and wishing I could just live as a lady of leisure, she always gives me the same piece of advice: never stop working. Not if you have kids, not if you have plenty of money. Just. Don’t.
I understand where she’s coming from. My mom is an artist. Moreover, she’s a successful artist: she teaches, she does books, and she leads tours. Still, I’ve seen what it’s like for her to scramble for her next paycheck, and call people to plaintively ask them to mail her check. It’s not fair. Which is why my mom is so thrilled that my sister and I are both going into salaried work.
On the other hand, she was there for us we were little, and she’s still there for us these days. Whenever someone gets sick, or needs help, I know my mom will be there. In addition, my mom keeps a beautiful garden and a lovely house. Whenever people come to stay with us, there are always fresh linens on the bed and warm muffins for breakfast. (This, by the way, is why I drive myself to exhaustion when people stay with me: if the apartment isn’t completely clean, and if my guests don’t have fresh baked goods, I’m not being a good hostess. It’s a blessing and a curse, but at least I get fresh muffins too.)
And that, my friends, is the pull of domesticity. I’m starting to understand why people leave the city when they’re older. I was in Connecticut this past weekend, and we went to a wedding shower at a country club, did a little light shopping in the afternoon, and then went for a walk the next morning along the Connecticut river. On the way back, we bought some fresh eggs, asparagus, and spinach, while I gawked at the hens like I had spotted Sarah Jessica Parker on the street. They clucked at me expectantly. I made a strawberry-rhubarb pie in the afternoon, and we ate grilled (grilled! on a grill!) steak and creamed spinach. Not a single subway, homeless person, or concrete sidewalk in sight. Everywhere I went, I was whisked around in the comfort of a car. I wore a sweatshirt in public. It was all so easy.
Which is really what it comes down to: ease and comfort. I’m not saying my perch on the fourth floor is uncomfortable, but there is always the three flights of stairs to contend with. If I have to get somewhere and it’s raining, I get wet. If it’s hot out, well, you’ll get really sweaty. And if I want to go anywhere at all, I have to live with the minor indignities of public transportation.
For all my moaning, though, city life isn’t worth giving up on yet. Just to start: banh mi on Christopher Street, the cheese shop on 7th street, strutting around in my new gold shoes, gawking at dogs in the dog park, free people watching on the Hoboken pier, drinking as much as you like and walking home, lazily ordering in any of 14 different cuisines, having people come visit me, the Neue Gallery, and easy access to dried ancho chiles.
As for working, at least I get to chat with Paula Wolfert all the time. Now that’s something!
