My mother’s “work from home” job was as task master, chaos controller, budget stretcher and organizational wizard for her seven kids. She took great pride in her mothering and homemaking skills and-like many people whose careers define them-lived with a degree of anxiety that a crack in the veneer would expose her as a fraud.
In the fifties and sixties, our kitchen table was base camp for art projects, school work and holiday-cookie decorating. No matter how many crayons, paste pots, glitter jars or paper maiche mountains littered the table the whole shebang was always put away before dinner. The table cloth was wiped down and the chairs were pushed-in. Pristine.
Not so below the surface. The underside of the long, oval table, its topside rarely seen without its fuzzy-backed-printed-vinyl tablecloth, was the repository Read more