Happy Housewife vs. Mad Mommy

It's hard out there for a working mother. She is her offspring's designated maid, cook, chauffer, playmate, teacher, nurse, and of course, the source of absolute, unconditional love. Yet nothing she does is ever quite enough -- at least not for cultural conservatives, to whom she is the very epitome of female narcissism, a selfish monster eager to sacrifice the happiness of her children to meet her personal needs.

More alarmingly, it's not just NASCAR rednecks or James Dobson followers who subscribe to this anti-feminist cant. The breadth of its appeal can be measured by the career of someone like Caitlin Flanagan, who has been a staff writer for two of the nation's most prestigious magazines, the Atlantic Monthly and now the New Yorker. Flanagan's singular claim to fame: her relentless advocacy of the idea that a "good" woman sets aside her needs to serve those of others, a task best achieved by remaining within the confines of the home.

Flanagan, as it turns out, is no happy housewife quietly tending to husband and child, but a "domestic diva" who delegates the actual housework to the less fortunate, leaving her free to wax eloquent about the virtues of homemaking in lengthy essays that have now been turned into a new book, "To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife."

Yet the very order, harmony and meticulous attention to detail she lauds in the lost arts of housekeeping are conspicuously missing in her own seductive but intellectually sloppy prose. "To Hell With All That" reveals Flanagan as less an intellectual than a literary acrobat, who offers up contorted lines of reasoning and vertiginous leaps of logic, delivered with a fearless indifference to facts. Every discussion of the woes of upper-middle-class life -- sexless marriages, overscheduled children, maternal anxiety -- ends with the same unlikely and wholly unsubstantiated conclusion: "What's missing from so many affluent American households is the one thing you can't buy: the presence of someone who cares deeply and principally about that home and the people who live in it." (This doesn't seem to have stopped Flanagan from "buying" the services of a personal organizer, nanny, gardener and housekeeper to do all that deep caring on her behalf.)

Flanagan may be easy to mock, but her ideas are not as easily dismissed. She is best understood as an eloquent raconteur of a pervasive cultural narrative that recasts modern middle-class life as the proverbial fall from the Eden represented by '50s America:

…a world that seems to me now a bygone age, as remote and unrecoverable as Camelot: a world of good meals turned out in orderly fashion; of fevers cooled without a single frantic call to the pediatrician; of clothes mended and repaired and pressed back into useful service rather than discarded to the rag heap … [of being] assured of safety, continuity, comfort of the highest order.

A paradise that was irretrievably lost when the feminist Eve foolishly bit the forbidden apple of economic independence. In Flanagan's writing, the '50s housewife is confident, self-effacingly generous and loving, and, above all, happy, unlike the self-absorbed, neurotic bundle of insecurities that is today's woman. Even the present-day "at-home" mother isn't immune from the pernicious effects of feminism, which has burdened her with both a contempt for housework as "drudgery" and the need to "do things for herself." (The words italicized to better convey the folly of such presumption.)

So off she goes to the movies, the yoga studio, the book club to "feed herself intellectually and emotionally." If middle-class mothers are sleep-deprived, angry, exhausted, unhappy -- as they undoubtedly seem in the many books and surveys -- it is merely fitting punishment for their narcissism, a consequence of the foolish demand for self-fulfillment. Abandon that unreasonable desire, commands Flanagan, and ye shall find the secret to the happiness of your feminine forbears.