When I was a child growing up in my great-grandmother’s home, my fondest wish was to have a room of my own. But our home was too small, so I had to share one with my grandmother.
I credit this experience with my love for decorating today. For as soon as I became an adult and had my own place, I was eager to try my hand at decorating and gardening.
I made lots of mistakes. I sewed crooked seams. I cooked many dishes that had to be thrown in the trash. I learned by trial and error.
I learned that a house is just a dwelling. But a home is a place designed to weather the storms of life. A soft place to land.
I was never bored staying at home when my children were young. I never felt cheated out of a career.
I was not ashamed when others asked me what I did, and I said: “I am a homemaker.” Though others might have pitied me this admission.
I happily sewed curtains and quilts and baked bread and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
I got together with other young mothers and we learned from one another and traded recipes.
I got married three times, thinking all the while that that was part and parcel of homemaking. But I was wrong.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re married or single. A mother or childless. Someone who failed at marriage or someone who never ventured into such a union.
You are a homemaker even if you live in a one-bedroom apartment. Even if your garden is just pots on a patio. Even if the only other inhabitants bark instead of talk.