A Domestic Engineer's Assertion of Her Position

I am a domestic engineer and the chief operating officer of a small firm specializing in personal growth and conflict resolution. My firm has five clients (including myself) between the ages of 1 and 68; they all have my phone number, and they all know where I live.

In other words, I’m a housewife. But the label of “domestic engineer” does true justice to my function in the family. The dictionary gives one definition of “engineer” as “a skillful manager,” and I certainly manage our home and its daily details and operations.

I grew up in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, the elder of two sisters. My father, an engineer, worked hard to provide for our family, and my mother stayed home to raise my sister and me.

Having my mother at home was completely normal to me. I never wondered whether my mother had any ambitions of her own or whether Mom desired something other than raising us and taking care of the house. She talked occasionally of her student days, her thoughts of pursuing child psychology or the more idealistic goal of becoming a doctor. But she always spoke of these things as long in the past and not connected to her present. We were her present and future, and that was enough for her.

Ekta R. Garg

My sister and I grew up with a strong sense of loyalty to family and tradition. Frequent trips to India fortified these values; our cousins and grandparents, aunts and uncles poured their love onto us, and we came back enwrapped in the belief that family was the cornerstone of a strong home.

As a child, I never gave much thought to what I wanted to be when I “grew up.” When I entered high school, my parents talked about me becoming a doctor. I flatly refused; while it may have been fashionable for South Asian kids to go to medical school, I had absolutely no interest in pursuing the sciences.

I decided to study journalism, and my parents were less than pleased. The path to financial success and a guaranteed career, in the South Asian mindset, has almost always been in something related to science or math and almost always involves more years in college than the bachelor’s degree. While my parents weren’t saying I should have a career, they wanted me to pursue the path most South Asian kids tread.

I wasn’t sure what exactly I wanted to do; I knew at some point I’d probably get married and settle down with a family of my own. For me, this was an understood fact: the sun rose, grass was green, and someday I was going to be a housewife.

Having gone to private school my entire life, my worldview was sheltered. When I went to college, I stepped away from that awning. My love for writing became more defined, and with it I realized whatever I did had to be connected to the written word.

My parents, in the meantime, were concerned about my single status — or, more specifically, how to end it. But as I entered my last year of college there were no marriage prospects, so Mom and Dad encouraged my desire to continue my education with a master’s degree.

Truth to tell, I applied to graduate schools to buy time. Through my 15 month experience at Northwestern, I realized I could potentially pursue avenues in life not related to being a housewife.

During those 15 months, though, my parents introduced me to my husband, and the express train of my life — from kindergarten to high school and then college and Northwestern with no stops in between — sped ahead when, a month-and-a-half after graduating from Northwestern, I got married. So I never experienced the “working world” before getting married. And with a mother who was home all the time, I didn’t have a blueprint for what “home plus work” looked like.

But I’ve since learned that a blueprint isn’t always necessary.

Most of my days follow the same pattern. My alarm is set for 7 a.m., and Muskaan, my toddler, is usually awake; by the time I leave our bedroom, my father-in-law (Papa) has already brought Suhani, our preschooler, downstairs — teeth brushed, bed made and breakfast underway. By 8 a.m., Suhani and Muskaan are in their bath.

Some mornings, my husband helps; depending on his monthly rotation he may not, but our morning routine doesn’t alter much. By 8:30, Suhani and I are on our way to school.

My husband is a second-year cardiology fellow, training here in Texas. We’ve been here for more than a year now, having moved from Portland, Oregon. His schedule changes monthly, which means I’m the one to deal with all the “details” — everything that is required to keep “our firm” running smoothly and in the black.

So mentally I’m already more than halfway through the day by the time we drive to school. From the moment I wake up, my mind is in planning mode. As soon as I drop Suhani off, I often put my cell phone headset into my ear. Doctor’s appointments, dinner gatherings with friends, questions to our satellite TV provider or our home’s builder for warranty-covered repair — I’ve done it all while driving to my workout center.

Sometimes during these calls, I picture myself as a receptionist, and the analogy makes me smile. A receptionist gets sick days and government-mandated vacations. I’m on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year with no available temps, so even during my hour workout, I’m still mentally going through the rest of my day.

When I come home, I usually spend an hour writing, a new part of my routine. In Portland, I was the contract publishing editor for a local publishing company. I managed many special publishing projects the company would take on, in addition to running the city’s premier medical newspaper, published bi-monthly.

When we moved to Texas, I resigned, and although intellectually I knew it was the right decision, I still miss it a lot. I had a wonderful boss and excellent coworkers, and it was a plum position for a first job.

A year later, I’m still surprised by just how much I miss working. It was my husband and Papa who first encouraged me to take the job when the opportunity landed in my lap. Work? I thought at the time. The idea had never occurred to me. Because I was raised by a domestic engineer — one of the very best — I had been prepared my whole life to follow the same path. Was it possible — acceptable, even — to do both?

The answer has been a resounding yes, although those echoes reverberate with the sounds of children laughing, of my husband and Papa and me trying to hold a conversation above it all, and in between songs on the radio as I write every day.

Finding time to write means finding a balance on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis. Between bringing Suhani home from preschool, preparing lunch, and Muskaan’s effervescent energy, I also try to make sure Papa gets to rest and I get other chores done.

Papa’s contribution to raising the children is a luxury and a necessity. Papa (who is retired and has been living with us since we got married) takes care of Muskaan’s lunch, her naptime and her entertainment. When his own children were growing up, he was working and missed the early childhood years. Now, he is getting a second chance to enjoy those baby firsts, and my children have an instant connection to their heritage and culture.

When we sit down for our evening chai, I’m still taken aback sometimes by my role. Just when did I get old enough to be someone’s wife or daughter-in-law or — most surprising of all — mother?

The surprise wafts away in the steam of a good cup of tea, and the balancing thought comes into play: I’ve always been meant to do this, to take care of my household and to oversee its daily operations.

In keeping track of these details, there is little time left for my other interests. I love Hindi movies. I’m an avid reader and try to read for at least 15 to 20 minutes a day. I love making photo albums. I want to investigate more freelancing projects.

As I’m doing the dinner dishes, if I hear Suhani call from her bed upstairs I admit I heave a sigh. I’m ready to get to bed myself. But when she asks for a hug and to make her “cuddly cozy” — our term for “tuck me in” — I feel a contentment deep inside.

I know this time with my children is short. They won’t be children for long. Already Suhani stands before me as a three-year-old chatterbox, and Muskaan is tall enough to reach the keyboard with her baby fingers. And I hope that in being a “housewife” while trying to balance a freelancing career and my own personal interests, I can show the girls it is acceptable to have something for my own self as well as give myself wholeheartedly to my family when they need me.

It is possible to absolutely love this job as a domestic engineer and to succeed in more than just one aspect of life.

Ekta is a freelance writer and editor living in Texas with her husband, two daughters, and father-in-law. She enjoys writing features and helping others streamline their articles. She can be reached via email at egarg0201@gmail.com.