Who am I? I’m definitely not June Cleaver. Despite similarities- wife, stay at home mom to two boys, white picket fenced home in the suburbs- that’s pretty much where it ends. I do own pearls, but don’t don them while doing housework. My apron features leopard print, not starched lace. And I probably should be wearing some sort of shaping undergarment, but I’m not. WWJD? (What would June do?) Probably nothing that I would.
I’ll admit I harbored dreams of June-dom but those promptly ended with my first parenting decision. In quick labor, there was no time for an epidural. They could give me a morphine drip, the doctor offered, but it would make the baby sluggish. “Sold!” I declared. June would have sacrificed her own comfort for an alert baby. My thought was that he had the rest of his life to recover and I might never. Very not June of me.
So here I am, six years into parenting and eleven years into marriage. My husband and I went on a date in high school. Very June, no? Except he never asked me out again. Moot point, I’ve always maintained, I wouldn’t have gone anyways. Not June. He finally came around six years later when we met up while I was back home from women’s college (very June!). His opening line: “I’m taller than you now.” Sigh. Not June.
I’m also the owner of a nine nippled Boston Terrier (she’s only supposed to have eight) and a Doxie-Lab mix puppy with a serious paper fetish and raging case of fleas. Take off your pearls and join me, won’t you?