JELLY ON THE WOODWORK
By Margery Rutherford
Last night I quit my job. I walked right up to the boss, whose name is Jerry and who happens to be my husband, and I resigned. He had just come in the door, whistled his familiar whistle, and called out. "Anyone home?" I had a crying baby in one arm, one was in the kitchen wailing for a peanut butter sandwich and dinner only half an hour away, and the third was sitting in front of the T.V. set, howling because he wanted two mouse-cartoons instead of the usual one. Jerry kissed me dutifully on the cheek.
It was then that I gave my notice, "I quit," I said. "I've had it. If you can find anyone who will take this job on the salary I get, she's welcome to it."
Jerry took the toddler from my arms, gave her a hello kiss, and sent her scooting. Then he put both his arms around me tight and kissed me special--that tender kind of kiss that curls my toes and wilts my heart. "How about a movie tonight, Beautiful?" he whispered.
I must say, my husband knows how to handle the help around here. I shudder to think what would happen if the office got wind of his phenomenal success and put him in charge of female personnel. I mentally tore up my resignation and settled for a movie instead.
Not that I don't like my job. I really do. Even thought the hours are horrible, and the pay is--well, I guess I should say the pay just isn't. It's the future of my job that holds such tremendous possibilities, and the people I work for just can't be beat. I have a dream of a husband and three shining pink babies. No one could ask for more.
It's just that sometimes it seems like too much. Sometimes it all seems too overpowering for any one woman to handle.
It's not the daily routine tasks. It's not the washing and ironing and cooking and mending. It's life's little emergencies that keep cropping up to disrupt my busy schedule.
We just get over a bout with the measles, and suddenly the flu bug bites us. We just get the tonsils out, and somebody falls off the swing and has to have three stitches taken in his scalp.
It's the battle of the budget. It's one new pair of shoes after the other and the dentist calling to tell us the X-rays revealed more cavities, and the milkman subtly asking me if I got the bill or did it blow away.
It's never finding time to wash the windows. You know that hall window where baby kisses the mailman through the panes? Jerry passes it on his way out the door every morning and more than once has slyly suggested, "Better get with it." And I always say, "Yes, dear. I'll do it for sure." Notice I don't say when. What I mean is, soon as the baby gets off to college I intend to do a lot of things around here.
It's that permanent jelly on the woodwork. I no sooner get it scrubbed off than it takes root again. It's cookie crumbs on the floor and the cobwebs clinging to the ceiling. It's the mud pies that get tracked across the kitchen floor. It's our bottomless sandpile that never loses its sand despite all that seems to accumulate in front of the T.V. set and beside the bathtub.
And the bulging closets. Every December when Jerry takes down the Christmas decorations, I say with all good intentions, "Now I'll clean out that closet before we put them back." And along about March, after we've stumbled over the boxes in the hall for three months, Jerry puts them back again; and I say, "Next year for sure."
It's missing our vacation because we had a tiny tot, and missing the summer before because we we're expecting that tiny tot. Then the summer before that, we had a tiny tot, and before that, we were expecting a tiny tot. And the summer before that, more of the same, and the summer before that, still more of the same.
It's confining a squirming baby in the supermarket basket and at the same time keeping tract of the two who are wandering through the store putting articles in the baskets of unsuspecting housewives. It's standing in line and sorting out my purchases from the boxes of cookies and animal crackers that my little helpers may have seen fit to select.
It's kicking toys and jelly sandwiches under the couch when the boss' wife comes to call. What's more (and it never fails) she always asks for the bathroom before she leaves, and what can I say? The plumbing cannot be out of order every time she drops in.
It's a collection of assorted bruises, bumps, and skinned knees, and runny noses and untied shoestrings, and "I'm thirsty's."
Do you see why I threatened to quit my job last night? It was all these things rolled together that suddenly seems to overwhelm me.
But that was last night. Tonight will be different.
I discovered something today. I had some errands to do, so I took a dollar out of the milk to pay a sitter. While I was gone, I discovered exactly what happiness is. It's this very thing I have just come home to--the four walls of this happy home, the three faces smiling up at me, the six sticky hands around my neck, and the three little mouths all talking at the same time.
It's a hard job--this business of raising a family. And like all jobs sometimes its demands sweep over you with such unexpected force that it seems too much, too difficult, for you to manage. But even during these occasional discouraging days, I know it's a tender and rewarding job. These happy little people are part of me. They depend on me and need me.
And soon that wonderful man who chose me for his wife will be home with us. And he will put both his arms around me tight and kiss me special, that tender kind of kiss that curls my toes and wilts my heart. Because I have something to tell him, tonight.
The most wonderful thing has happened to us! You see, we're going to have another baby.
By Margery Rutherford
Last night I quit my job. I walked right up to the boss, whose name is Jerry and who happens to be my husband, and I resigned. He had just come in the door, whistled his familiar whistle, and called out. "Anyone home?" I had a crying baby in one arm, one was in the kitchen wailing for a peanut butter sandwich and dinner only half an hour away, and the third was sitting in front of the T.V. set, howling because he wanted two mouse-cartoons instead of the usual one. Jerry kissed me dutifully on the cheek.
It was then that I gave my notice, "I quit," I said. "I've had it. If you can find anyone who will take this job on the salary I get, she's welcome to it."
Jerry took the toddler from my arms, gave her a hello kiss, and sent her scooting. Then he put both his arms around me tight and kissed me special--that tender kind of kiss that curls my toes and wilts my heart. "How about a movie tonight, Beautiful?" he whispered.
I must say, my husband knows how to handle the help around here. I shudder to think what would happen if the office got wind of his phenomenal success and put him in charge of female personnel. I mentally tore up my resignation and settled for a movie instead.
Not that I don't like my job. I really do. Even thought the hours are horrible, and the pay is--well, I guess I should say the pay just isn't. It's the future of my job that holds such tremendous possibilities, and the people I work for just can't be beat. I have a dream of a husband and three shining pink babies. No one could ask for more.
It's just that sometimes it seems like too much. Sometimes it all seems too overpowering for any one woman to handle.
It's not the daily routine tasks. It's not the washing and ironing and cooking and mending. It's life's little emergencies that keep cropping up to disrupt my busy schedule.
We just get over a bout with the measles, and suddenly the flu bug bites us. We just get the tonsils out, and somebody falls off the swing and has to have three stitches taken in his scalp.
It's the battle of the budget. It's one new pair of shoes after the other and the dentist calling to tell us the X-rays revealed more cavities, and the milkman subtly asking me if I got the bill or did it blow away.
It's never finding time to wash the windows. You know that hall window where baby kisses the mailman through the panes? Jerry passes it on his way out the door every morning and more than once has slyly suggested, "Better get with it." And I always say, "Yes, dear. I'll do it for sure." Notice I don't say when. What I mean is, soon as the baby gets off to college I intend to do a lot of things around here.
It's that permanent jelly on the woodwork. I no sooner get it scrubbed off than it takes root again. It's cookie crumbs on the floor and the cobwebs clinging to the ceiling. It's the mud pies that get tracked across the kitchen floor. It's our bottomless sandpile that never loses its sand despite all that seems to accumulate in front of the T.V. set and beside the bathtub.
And the bulging closets. Every December when Jerry takes down the Christmas decorations, I say with all good intentions, "Now I'll clean out that closet before we put them back." And along about March, after we've stumbled over the boxes in the hall for three months, Jerry puts them back again; and I say, "Next year for sure."
It's missing our vacation because we had a tiny tot, and missing the summer before because we we're expecting that tiny tot. Then the summer before that, we had a tiny tot, and before that, we were expecting a tiny tot. And the summer before that, more of the same, and the summer before that, still more of the same.
It's confining a squirming baby in the supermarket basket and at the same time keeping tract of the two who are wandering through the store putting articles in the baskets of unsuspecting housewives. It's standing in line and sorting out my purchases from the boxes of cookies and animal crackers that my little helpers may have seen fit to select.
It's kicking toys and jelly sandwiches under the couch when the boss' wife comes to call. What's more (and it never fails) she always asks for the bathroom before she leaves, and what can I say? The plumbing cannot be out of order every time she drops in.
It's a collection of assorted bruises, bumps, and skinned knees, and runny noses and untied shoestrings, and "I'm thirsty's."
Do you see why I threatened to quit my job last night? It was all these things rolled together that suddenly seems to overwhelm me.
But that was last night. Tonight will be different.
I discovered something today. I had some errands to do, so I took a dollar out of the milk to pay a sitter. While I was gone, I discovered exactly what happiness is. It's this very thing I have just come home to--the four walls of this happy home, the three faces smiling up at me, the six sticky hands around my neck, and the three little mouths all talking at the same time.
It's a hard job--this business of raising a family. And like all jobs sometimes its demands sweep over you with such unexpected force that it seems too much, too difficult, for you to manage. But even during these occasional discouraging days, I know it's a tender and rewarding job. These happy little people are part of me. They depend on me and need me.
And soon that wonderful man who chose me for his wife will be home with us. And he will put both his arms around me tight and kiss me special, that tender kind of kiss that curls my toes and wilts my heart. Because I have something to tell him, tonight.
The most wonderful thing has happened to us! You see, we're going to have another baby.
I had a copy of this story years ago but misplace it. I was delighted to find it in your blog when I googled it. Thanks for sharing.
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