It started when I was about six years old watching “Mr. Ed,” the 1950’s sitcom that featured the eponymous talking horse, along with owner Wilbur and his wife Carol.
Of course it was the wisecracking equine that first attracted me to the show, but it was the mid-century aesthetic and ideals that sucked me in and sowed the seeds of a life I’m still chasing.
You see, Wilbur’s stylish young housewife always wore stilettos, A-line dresses, gloves, and hats. She kept a tidy house and was adorably pouty. Her perfectly slender figure made her light enough for her husband to effortlessly swoop her up into his arms at will (I remember him often carrying her around their living room, but I’m not sure if it happened a lot or I just watched the same episodes so often).
That was my gateway drug and I was hooked—there was “The Donna Reed Show,” “Leave It to Beaver,” “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” “Father Knows Best” and of course, “I Love Lucy,” which I fondly remember because my mother seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of every episode.
The impeccable clothing; the gentle, loving, capable housewife; the handsome, doting husband who provided for them all—it seemed like paradise.
Now, I know what’s on TV is not real and that most people – my parents included – did not live that kind of idyllic life.
Furthermore, I do believe that the conflict that erupted in the 1960’s on so many fronts grew out of the problems ignored in the 1950s.
Still, the wife and mother modeled in the flickering monochrome world became who I wanted and still wish to be.
Like most women my age, I dabbled in radical feminism in college but I always knew I wanted to be a wife and mother.
I knew I wanted to stay home with my kids, at least while they were young. So, when I married my husband, he agreed that we’d do just that for our family.
As you may now surmise from the fact that I call myself unfinished, I’m far from Donna Reed or June Cleaver. In fact, I’m more like Frankie Heck from “The Middle” (that’s another discussion for another time).
But I still strive to be the best I can be, aspiring to be the ideal woman I saw modeled in the sitcoms that shaped my childhood.
I want to be the heart of our family. I long to be the patient, nurturing mother and capable, efficient housewife.
I want ours to be a peaceful, serene place where my husband feels appreciated and relaxed.
And finally, I want my children to feel sheltered from the storms of life and find refuge in our loving family even after they grow up and have children of their own.
I’m not even close yet, but sometimes folks achieve what was previously deemed impossible.
I know that because of my faith in God, but also because the same women I idolize for their homemaking prowess also lived through the Great Depression, served their country or fought to keep the home fires burning during WWII, and made their children’s lives sweet and safe (so unlike their own).
And I’d gladly settle for half their strength and courage– even if I’m still too heavy to be carried around the living room.
You know this is exactly how I feel – wanting that life (or how it appears to be) but now that I’m the mom it feels absolutely impossible even to come close to it.
This mom thing is way harder than it looked, right? You’re doing an awesome job though–your kids are sweet, kind, and polite and everything that comes out of your kitchen is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Ah, and of course you’re a supportive, kind, loyal friend who also happens to hilarious. If that’s not crushing it 1950’s style, I don’t know what is.