Head of the household

I have a deep dark secret to confess: I enjoy reading feminist literature.

Well, to be more specific, I enjoy reading literature that bashes feminism (maybe I should call it anti-feminist literature). I just do, that’s all.

If you haven’t yet read the Flipside of Feminism, I highly recommend it. And at the moment I’m re-reading a book called Women Who Make the World Worse by Kate O’Beirne. Today's blog post was inspired by O'Beirne's chapter on daycare. The author discusses the pervasive feminist mindset that children do better away from the constant, smothering care of their mothers. Preschoolers should be thrust into institutionalized day prisons in order to learn egalitarianism. Or something.

Ms. O’Beirne quotes a passage from another book called The War Against Parents by Sylvia Ann Hewlett (which I haven’t read but would like to) as follows: “Important strands of liberal thinking are antagonistic to the parenting enterprise. Scratch the surface and you will find that many folks on the left don’t particularly like marriage or children. In their view, the enormous quantity of other-directed energy absorbed by families gets in the way of freedom of choice, and ultimately of self-realization. This is particular true for women, which is why some radical feminists tend to see motherhood as a plot to derail equal rights and lure women back to subservient, submissive roles within the family.”

It was the terms “subservient, submissive roles within the family” that annoyed me. What would a radical feminist have to say about the dynamics of the Lewis household, for Pete’s sake, where I freely admit my husband is my hero? Not only my hero, but the acknowledged head of our household?

Yes, he’s the Head of this family, and frankly I like it that way.

However much feminists want to deny biology, the fact remains that men and women are different.  (Shocking, I know.) I like to think that God in His divine wisdom came up with the spiffy concept of a division of labor for the sake of efficiency.

Feminists call this oppression.

But why is it oppressive to look to one’s husband for guidance and strength, rather than to feminists? Why can’t it be a freeing thing for a woman to lean on her husband?  Isn't it nice that women don't have to "do it all," including leading their family?  (Unless they're without a husband, of course.)

Perhaps it’s because feminists can’t acknowledge how men – True Men – don’t throw their weight around, either physically or psychologically.

I’m reminded of an old story. Apparently a heavyweight boxing champion and his friend boarded a subway train with standing room only. Shortly after a new passenger came on who pushed and shoved his way rudely past the other standing passengers. The boxer was shoved so hard he almost fell. But he did nothing except straighten up and re-grip the overhead strap.

His friend was annoyed. “You’re the heavy-weight boxing champion!” he scolded. “You could have decked that guy! Why didn’t you?”

“A heavy-weight boxing champion doesn’t have to deck that guy,” the boxer replied. “He’s strong enough to know when not to throw his weight around.”

It’s that way with men who truly assume the mantle of Head. My husband doesn’t have to throw his weight around, physically or psychologically. Such behavior merely indicates insecurity and would not garner respect from his wife and children. True men don’t force their wives into submissive, subservient roles. They know diamonds are too valuable to treat like glass.

I am the Heart of this household, and as everyone knows, a body is no good without a heart, just as a body is no good without a head. We need both, and the fact that I view my husband as my Head in no way diminishes my importance as his Heart, which is my role. But someone has to have the final say in a house for peace and order to prevail, and that job goes to the man.

A wise Head takes advice and counsel from his Heart. Don and I discuss all household decisions and mutually agree on nearly everything. But if there is a dissenting opinion between us, and unless I can demonstrate why my opinion is superior, then I defer to his guidance.

Oooh, sacrilege to the feminist cause. Feminists, presumably, must always have the last word, which I interpret as meaning feminists try to make their husbands submissive and subservient.

And here’s something most feminists don’t have: Domestic harmony. Because Don and I each understand our unique and critical roles in our marriage, we are blessed with domestic harmony that is the envy of many. But we are not unique in this. All our happily-married friends do the same thing. It’s like we’ve discovered the “secret” to happy marriages that no modern-day feminist will ever admit has worked well for, oh, several thousand years.

Don and I had an interesting conversation with a neighbor last night. She’s in the middle of reading my book. Naturally I asked for her candid opinion. The first thing she said was, “It’s a praise fest for Don.” What she meant was, my admiration for my husband permeates the entire book.

The discussion segued to the tendency for women to bash their husbands (one of my pet peeves). If you get a group of women together without their men present, just about the first thing they start to do is gripe about how stupid their husbands are.

My mother never did this to my father. I never do this to Don. I pray my daughters will never do that to their future husbands.

See, I tend to look at things from the opposite perspective as these griping women. I tend to assume that every woman has the potential to be as happy with her husband as I am with Don. This attitude is confirmed by many of my friends' attitudes toward their husbands. To hear our neighbor Enola Gay talk about her husband is a beautiful thing.

But to feminists, this is anathema. A happy, harmonious, and (worse) traditional family arrangement can no longer be admitted as the best environment for raising children. It is no longer politically correct for a woman to honor her husband because it’s interpreted as (cough) subservient and submissive.

Remember the parents (Charles and Caroline) of Laura Ingalls Wilder? I once saw it written that Caroline went wherever Charles took her, but Charles would only go where Caroline let him. In other words, they worked together as a team. Being the Head of a household doesn’t mean a man is a nasty dictator. In means taking wise counsel from others, primarily one’s Heart, to discern the best path for a family to take. So an important task for a woman in choosing a husband is to pick a man who truly understands what it means to take his place as Head of the household.

Much of the hostility toward stay-at-home moms appears to stem from the notion that home is an awful place to be. And frankly if I had to live with a feminist, I would agree – it would be an awful place to be. But a home ruled over by a domestic diva is a lovely, warm, welcoming place, a refuge from an often cruel world, an anchor of peace in a tough economy, a haven of tranquility against the rigors of the outside world.

And men know this very very well, because they are the slayers of dragons and our knights in shining armor whose efforts permit us to create those homes.

Luke 24:1-8

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them,

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ” Then they remembered his words.

Simple living 101

Almost forgot to post this weekend's WorldNetDaily column called Simple Living 101.

Bugs me

I don't know why, but these bumper stickers bug me.

I can't put my finger on why, but they do. How do you folks feel about them?

UPDATE: I should clarify one thing: I do not believe these bumper stickers address race. I have a multi-racial family and to the best of my knowledge I'm pretty much color-blind on that issue.  Co-existing with all races isn't an issue for me.

Random pix

Thursday we had snow flurries all day long.

Then yesterday morning we woke up to about two inches of snow. Hey Al? Can you do something about this please? We want spring.

Little Victoria had seen flurries before, but not the real thing. She wasn't sure what to make of it. The snow was gone by early afternoon.

Early this morning I came downstairs and saw two deer in the yard. Rather than let the dogs explode after them, I went out first and gently shooed them over the fence.

Thor looks ready for a sled ride.

Victoria is starting to experiment with solid food.

"Aw, mommmm!" Matilda grooms Thor.

Polly rests on the porch to chew her cud.

Pretty sunset.

What do you need me for?

A reader sent this. I thought it was appropriate for Good Friday, the day we remember Someone who died for our sins.
______________________________________

If you never felt pain, then how would you know I am a Healer?

If you never had to pray, how would you know I am a Deliverer?

If you never had a trial, how could you call yourself an overcomer?

If you never felt sadness, how would you know that I am a Comforter?

If you never made a mistake, how would you know that I am a Forgiver?

If you knew all, how would you know that I will answer your questions?

If you never were in trouble, how would you know that I will come to your rescue?

If you never were broken, then how would you know that I can make you whole?

If you never had a problem, how would you know that I can solve them?

If you never had any suffering, then how would you know what I went through?

If you never went through the fire, then how would you become pure?

If I gave you all things, how would you appreciate them?

If I never corrected you, how would you know that I love you?

If you had all power, then how would you learn to depend on me?

If your life was perfect, then what would you need me for?

Flourescent fencing follies

Our fencing efforts haven't been working. Well, let me amend that: they've worked for everyone but our steer, Nebuchadnezzar (whom I was starting to call The Little Turd).

We had reinforced the field fence line at the bottom of the woods until (we thought) nothing could get through.

We had reinforced the barbed wire fence line along the road until (we thought) nothing could get through.

But that wily steer DID get through. Again and again. In addition to being a pain in the rear -- twice a day the faithful cry of "The steer is out!" came from someone -- but he was becoming troublesome to the neighbors. We value our relations with the neighbors and didn't want problems because we couldn't keep the Little Turd where he was supposed to be.

So once again Don and I walked the fence lines, looking for telltale signs of hoofprints in the mud, bent wires, and tufts of hair on the fences.

We added more wires to the T-posts.

Along many of the fence bottoms, we put heavy branches or small logs, and wired the bottom of the fence all along the length of the logs.

We also braced some of the fence bottoms with heavy rocks.

And still he got through. Aarrrggghhh! How was it possible? We'd been over that fence line with a fine-tooth comb! Where was he escaping?

So I tried following him. Book in hand, I spent several hours trailing behind him as he casually grazed his way around the woods with the rest of the herd. Naturally when I dashed up to the house for a brief lunch break, he was already outside the fence by the time I got back.

"Who, me?"

Okay fine. We decided we had to work smarter, not harder. We bought some fluorescent orange chalk powder...

...and mixed it with Vaseline.

The resulting gloop was pretty visible, hee hee hee.

"Hey wait a minute, what are you doing?"

After smearing him liberally with the colorful Vaseline...

...Don also dusted him thoroughly with loose chalk. (Notice the interest from Jet and Gimli.)

"What happened to YOU?" "I don't want to talk about it."

The result was an extremely visible steer.

We figured if he was jumping over the fence, the loose chalk would poof off him and show the location. If he was slipping through or under the fence, the Vaseline would smear on the wire.

Several hours later he was outside the fence once more. We herded him back to the house and then walked the fence lines. Aha! Success! He was slipping through a section of fence that was so brushy we didn't think we had to reinforce it. Wrong!

Busted! Telltale orange branches and a tuft of orange fur caught on the barbed wire.

So Don reinforced the bloody heck out of that section of fence -- and as of this posting, he hasn't escaped yet.

Little turd...