Wife, Mother, Extremist

Script:

Remember “normal”?

When did being normal get canceled?

Normal, by the way, is my gender identity. Misgender me at your peril.

What makes me normal?

Well, I am in a monogamous marriage, and I intend to stick with it until death do us part.

I’m a proud husbosexual. That means I am only attracted to men who identify as my husband.

We have five children.

Each of them remains the sex they were born.

The only flag we fly has fifty stars and thirteen stripes.

We are trying our best to instill Judeo-Christian, American values in our kids. You know, the stuff like every human being is created in the image of God; personal responsibility; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

We hope they marry young and produce a lot of grandchildren for us to dandle on our knees one day.

Trigger warning: I also stayed home to raise my babies.

Compared to most women my age, all this makes me a radical. An extremist.

Or, as I call myself, a domestic extremist.

The funny thing is, I am not classically “domestic.”

I bake with Duncan Hines, and I loathe doing laundry.

I have never crocheted anything, darned a sock, or touched a loom.

I have never practiced animal husbandry. It’s too late for me to learn how to milk goats. You’re welcome, goats.

In fact, I’ve spent my entire life in big cities where tending the plants is something the gardener does.

For better or worse, I was raised as a fairly spoiled, totally secular, suburban American princess.

In short, I was once just like most of you.

Unhappy, trying to convince myself I wasn’t.

Then, fate intervened and I met a great guy——just in time.

And I realized something my grandmother took for granted: a woman’s most meaningful calling in life