Is it pretentious of me to say that I feel the Zeitgeist changing? Maybe. I don’t care, because, I swear, I do feel it changing. . .at least my own personal Zeitgeist, the one buzzing around me like moths around a street lamp. For other people, it may have changed a long time ago, for still others it may never change. I’m 37 years old and it finally seems like feminism is entering a new phase. I’ve heard it referred to as “the third wave” but that seems an extremely short-sighted view of history.
It may have been better to say that the other night, when I was reading Made From Scratch, I had a “click” moment. In one moment so much of what had been percolating in my brain for the past year or more—about feminism, housekeeping, education, ambition, motherhood and art, suddenly bubbled over; thoughts spilled out and had to be written down on whatever paper was at hand (which happened to be end pages in my copy of Rebecca West’s biography”). I was not in agreement with everything Jean Zimmerman had to say, but have run into few women whose reading lists are as similar to my own.
In the past few months the struggle here has not been in the kitchen as much as it has been within myself--trying to reconcile my entire life up to this point with the way in which I actually spend my days.
I know there is value in the cooking that I do and in the time I spend with my child, but only recently have I made my mind about housecleaning: the truth is I have been paying someone else to do all the real therapeutic and pleasurable work.
When Kipp was about 10 months old and I was a weary new mother, staying up well past midnight to work from home, just for health insurance, I hired a cleaning lady to come once a week. We soon fell into the pattern of working together. She would dust, mop, vaccuum and scrub, while I tackled clutter: papers, dirty dishes, clothes, toys and mis-placed items. In three hours we could clean the entire house, and though the sensation of a clean house is enjoyable, something was amiss. I still felt fractured, frazzled. Now I understand. I'd been missing out on a lot of what Zimmerman calls “animal pleasure”—the animal pleasure of keeping a clean living space. The dust was gone, but I didn’t wipe it away. The carpets were spotless, but not by my hand.
My cleaning lady and I have become quite close. In April she will be retiring, and though I am looking forward to doing my own cleaning again, without her arrival every Monday morning will I be as disciplined? It will take me twice as long to clean the house, unless I am more mindful, all week long, of taking care of the clutter.
Not for one instance have I ever questioned the value of having a clean living space. The instant serenity it provides is more of a stress-reliever than bubble baths ‘round the clock. Nor do I resent the work of cleaning; that would be almost impossible given all the pleasurable aromas involved and the joy of being active.
So what is it, exactly, that I do resent?
1:01:59 PM 
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