The Woman of His Dreams

Picture it. Mayfield, 1957. An impeccably groomed, (and by impeccable I mean wearing a dress, high heels, lipstick, and of course pearls) doting wife greets her husband at the door with an obligatory peck on the cheek. She takes his coat and briefcase, and hands him a cold beverage to enjoy as he relaxes in the lemon fresh den while she completes preparations for the evening meal; meatloaf, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans and homemade bread. Of course, I have just described an all important moment in the life of the Cleavers, commandeered by the illustrious June.
My husband will proudly tell you, just as he has told me many times that June Cleaver is the woman of his dreams. Patrick grew up in the era of submissive wives. The kind of wife and mother who served three meals a day without the assistance of a microwave or Subway, the ones who really mopped the floors every day, and ironed everything, including sheets and underwear, on a real live ironing board not just a towel on the floor or bathroom counter. Patrick’s mother was this kind of woman. She was a fabulous cook. Most every time I saw her she was in the kitchen or waiting on her husband hand and foot. What was she thinking?
I too, was raised by a domestic goddess. However, my mother took it to a whole new level. Not only did she cook, clean, iron and serve – she did it all in full make-up. I’m pretty sure I was an adult before I realized that my mom’s eyeliner was not part of her DNA. How she managed to do everything that she did during the day without the benefit of sweat pants and scrunchies is beyond me. Just to be clear, my mother always looked like a JC Penney model no matter what her task.
Early on in my own marriage I realized that these were the shoes that I was expected to fill. I simply had to keep a spotless house, cook three fabulous meals each day, launder and iron the clothes (this would be a good time to mention that Patrick is a real stickler for having his jeans put away in the right drawer) ,and raise beautiful, intelligent, well-mannered children. Oh yes, and I should do all of these things in lipstick. Boy, was I in trouble. Or should I say - boy was Patrick in trouble.
My intentions regarding domestic tranquility have always been noble. In fact, I can boast of at least a few years when my house was always clean, home cooked meals were served promptly at six, and I and my children were well groomed. Oh, it was only the one child that was well groomed because he was the only one I had at the time. And the sparkling, dust-free house – five rooms total! I could knock it out in an hour tops. The meals, now they were the real deal (most of the time anyway). Beyond all this, my well-groomed, only son enjoyed my undivided attention from the moment he bounded to the car during parent pick-up until he could not possibly hold his eyes open a second longer.
Along with baby number two came all her stuff, and a mother’s immeasurable desire to glean every precious moment with this baby who was to be her last, all the while making her five year old big brother feel as though he indeed HAD NOT been shot out of the saddle by this blob of a girl. So, in my quest for balance and equality among my children; polished mirrors and windows gave way to rocking babies and playing Power Rangers in the floor. A little dust on the furniture was far less important than a backyard frolic. Clutter control gave way to child care. Home-cooking slowly surrendered to Happy Meals.
The four of us soon began to outgrow our little house, yet another obstacle in the quest to channel my inner June. We tripped over toys, bouncy seats, hot wheels cars and furniture. We even tripped over each other. Still, I soldiered on and cleaned my corner of the world; at least the ones I could get to. The overwhelming feeling that we had to get out of the little house that, although we loved, was closing in around us, really intensified when an unexpected surprise came our way. Remember that last baby girl that I rocked for miles and documented every moment of her life as if no baby would ever be born to any parent ever again? Turns out the world would have another baby after all. Turns out, he would be mine.
Along with baby number three, came a brand new house – one with more than five rooms. It had an upstairs even. Living in all these rooms were me, Patrick and his jeans, a seven year old with a budding football career and social life, a toddler who hadn’t figured out that she was not the last baby on the planet, and the baby who surprised us not only with his presence, but with his complete state of bliss in any situation (lucky for him).
Our new home held all the possibility that freshly painted walls and recently polished wood floors could hold. They sure worked their magic on me – for a while anyway. There was no way not to be a good housekeeper in a new house filled with new stuff. Or, maybe there was. Let us not forget that three children lived here along with new drapes. Luke, the original model held his own. He had a room all to himself, heck, he had a floor all too himself. The blob and the new kid, well they were a different story. A few weeks after our move, Mallory informed me that the new house gave her diarrhea. As a bonus, I seem to recall that my blissful baby threw up for about eighteen months straight.
I don’t know if it was the new house, the new kids, or the combination of house and kids (new and used), but somewhere amid the dirty diapers (there were many), piles of vomit (also many), and polished wood floors that needed constant maintenance, I slipped over the edge. Suffice it to say we were not in Mayfield anymore.
Nearly seven years after the big move, we all are living blissfully in our often cluttered home. I have found that there are far more important things to do in this life than iron and dust. The house is clean enough, so are our clothes. However, our socks don’t always match. Tricycles and big wheels have taken a toll on the shiny floors. I usually pretend that we don’t have an upstairs. No one sees it and besides, I do better with about five rooms. We never eat at six, and while Luke may have distant memories of meat loaf and mashed potatoes; Jed compares all cooking to that of Bob’s Dairyland. I still fold Patrick’s jeans but instead of finding them neatly in his drawer, they are more likely to be in a neat stack at the foot of the bed or on top of the dryer. If I greet my husband at the door it is usually to ask him to take a turn refereeing the kids. I’m positive he would faint if I came to the door in heels and pearls.
Our life is wonderful; wonderfully us. Patrick’s mother would be devastated to know that her son actually had to spoon his own food on his plate, worse yet that they food may be take out. My mother still begs me to wear makeup to the grocery store, the drug store, the mail box – she probably wants me to wear it to bed. When Patrick opens the door after work, most days he finds me in sweat pants and a tee-shirt. It is probably safe to say that I haven’t been within ten yards of lipstick or perfume. It is also a safe bet that there are dirty dishes in the sink and that two out of three kids are screaming, crying, etc. There is nothing lemon fresh about Patrick’s entrance, the beverage of the day probably comes in a pouch and dinner? You got it – Bob’s Dairyland. If he is disappointed he certainly does not let it show. Our love is bigger than all this stuff but even with this assurance I often ask myself, If June Cleaver is the woman of his dreams, why in the world did he marry Rosanne?