As a mother, I stay at home. I gave up my job more than a year ago to take care of our three-year-old daughter, who has autism and requires a lot of assistance. My spouse, who is typically a feminist, has been hitting me in group chats lately. I never imagined myself in the role of a stay-at-home parent (SAHM). I used to love the fast-paced world of marketing, where ideas were generated over coffee and campaigns were everywhere. But when my husband, Jake, and I made a decision that drastically transformed our lives a little over a year ago, everything changed. Three-year-old Lily, our autistic daughter, required more than her daycare could provide. Since she has complicated needs and needs ongoing care, it became obvious that one of us needed to be with her full-time.
To be honest, bidding farewell to my job was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I miss having my own source of income and the fulfillment that comes from a job well done. But here I am, organizing my meals, preparing food, and baking throughout the day. These activities have brought me joy, and experimenting in the kitchen has evolved into my new creative outlet.
Under my direction, our backyard has grown into a little garden haven, and I do most of the cleaning. Jake contributes fairly as well; while he is at home, he takes an active role in parenting and household tasks. We have always avoided typical gender roles and worked as a team—at least, that is what I believed until last week.
I was vacuuming Jake’s home office while he was at work on a typical Thursday. It is a typical software development workspace, full of tech devices and mountains of papers. My attention was drawn to his computer screen, which was still on and softly shining in the room’s low lighting. Usually it is an accident that he leaves it on, but what I witnessed next was not an accident.
He had his Twitter account open, and I froze when I saw a tweet with the hashtag #tradwife in it. As I read the post, I felt confused. It exalted the benefits of having a conventional wife who is proud of her household responsibilities. A picture of myself, looking exactly like a 1950s housewife, pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven was attached.
I continued to scan through posts, which made my stomach turn. Once more, I was tending to my garden and reading to Lily, both of our faces fortunately covered. This was Jake’s story, and he had been creating a story about our existence that was very different from what had happened. He portrayed me as a lady who gladly traded her job for aprons and storybooks, content in her vocation as a homemaker. There was no mention of the truth of our circumstances, which is that this arrangement was necessary for our daughter’s welfare.
