Patriarchy? Does the Patriarchy still exist, you ask? I’ll let you be the judge.
So let’s start with the fact that I just finished house hunting and started wondering why the big bedroom in every house is called the “Master”. Why? Why isn’t it called the “Mistress?” Or better yet, “Mistress Minx?” Or “Mistress Cream Puff.” I don’t want to sleep in a “Master.” I want to sleep in a “Mistress Minx” room with a bed shaped like a cream puff and a mattress as soft as a croissant. Maybe that’s what Master Suites should be called” “Mistress Minx Cream Puff Rooms.” It has a nice ring to it. Better than Master.
Another example: I received address labels today asking for donations to something, addressed to the “Head of Household” and naming my 13- year-old son. What the heck?
Another Example: Last summer in Europe, two of our hotels had handwritten notes welcoming my teen son, Mr. Henry Howard and family. Gee thanks. I do believe it’s Mom who is the Head of the Family, who planned the entire trip and paid for it, but go ahead, address your little cards to my teenage son who can’t remember to wear shoes.
Another Example: A few days ago, I renewed our family membership with the Trustees who protect and oversee all the nature reserves in MA and the membership came addressed to my son again, with his name as the primary member and me and my daughter listed in small letters as “Additional family members”.
I mean, what are we, chopped liver?
Patriarchy and its ugly cousin, misogyny, is front and center in the world of divorce, and it’s tripled when you are a stay-at-home Mom. When I was forced, kicking and screaming into the Divorce World, I was horrified as several different lawyers told me that family law says that neither parent is allowed to stay home. They don’t care if it’s in the children’s best interest. They don’t care if you have made a family decision that this is best for your particular circumstance. Nope. Both parents must work and you have to figure something out with the kids. Great. So now in addition to the kids being traumatized by the divorce, they have to figure things out on their own or with strangers to watch them.
I always told my ex that if I was going to stay home with the kids, I needed my own bank accounts and savings. He said, over and over, “That’s ridiculous. I’ll never leave you.”
And then, in a not-so-shocking twist, the ultimate middle-aged man cliché, he left. And here I am trying to find a way to support my children.
Now I’m lucky that I have a Bachelor’s degree in English and a Masters degree in Education, so that must count for something in the paying world.
But hey! I just realized the names of the degrees are completely patriarchal as well!! Why are they called Bachelors and Masters and not “Bachelorettes” and “Mistresses?” Why does the word “Bachelorette” evoke images of drunk girls in boas screaming with their heads poking out of the ceiling of their limos. While the word “Mistress,” well that just makes me think of a dominatrix with black leather and a whip.
Maybe BA should stand for BadAss? And instead of a Masters degree it should be a Mistress degree? But here we are back with the lady with black boots and a whip. As long as she’s only whipping cream, I’m in. Add some strawberries and shortcake to that cream and I’ll follow her anywhere.
And a Masters Degree should be renamed “Her Majesty’s Degree.” Yes. I like that.
So a really fun part of divorce was when my ex decided to depose me. For what? I never did anything that might require deposing. My ex’s lawyer was female, at least I think she was, but the only way to tell was her name which was Lisa. And I don’t know a lot of men named Lisa. One of the first things this ugly-hearted lawyer asked me was, “What do you do all day?”
Every stay-at-home Mom loves this question since we wake up hitting the ground running, starting with laundry, breakfast for the kids, driving them to school, cleaning their rooms and the house, going to see them sing at school meeting, running forgotten items to school, going to pick up cleats and ballet slippers and the mandatory mouth guard before the game, the pants that have gotten too small for the second time this month, then to the basketball game, then home to make a snack before picking up the other child and taking her to dance class, home to make dinner, back to pick up the dancing child, making another dinner for her before helping with homework, and it my eyes are still open at the end of the day, sitting down to write or return emails.
I shouldn’t have to explain this to anyone, but I’m going to guess that lawyer wasn’t a mother and thinks I sit around eating bon-bons all day and lounging in my feathered robes.
And now that I mention it, what exactly is a bon-bon? Sounds adorable and delicious. Maybe it’s time I tried some while I’m job-hunting in between caring for my kids and making a magical home for them.
Because if there’s one thing we can all agree on, it’s that a Pastry-archy is much better than a boring old stodgy Patriarchy.
It makes my head spin faster than a dessert tray in a bakery window, right? Which really isn’t very fast.
Okay, it makes my head spin faster than a whirling dervish?
A wisk in a bowl of whipped cream?
A champion pole dancer?
(All of the above make more money than a stay-at-home mom, even the whipped cream.)
Several times during the divorce process, I was so horrified by the unjust decisions, that I wanted to march on City Hall to change laws for future divorcees to protect them and the family. But on the other hand, I don’t want to spend one more second in the world of Family Law—it’s ugly, brutal, and full of pain and darkness, a toxic swamp where the only winners are the lawyers and their bank accounts.
And so I rise. Like warm dough on a sunny windowsill, like hot bread baked in a clay oven, like airy popovers, I rise.
Down with the Patriarchy! Up with the Pastry-archy!
And send Mistress Minx over here with her whip. My bon-bons need some whipped cream to top them off. And by the way, for clarity, I’m not just job-hunting. Oh no. I’m planning to transform the world so my son and daughter can have a more just fair world in which to live and love.
And maybe even someone to make them warm croissants on chilly mornings and call their mother over to help eat them.
