As I nightly shine my sink following the housekeeping advice of Marla Cilley, I think, I have become Mrs. Hughes. But I always thought of myself as more Edith-y.
Despite my attempts to remain a sylph-like enigma I have become a matron, holding the keys to a household, and the laundry, and orthodontist bills, and the schedule of all after-school sports and dance lessons. I keep those above stairs in the manner to which they have become accustomed. My children are to the shrinking lower middle-class manor born.
Social science suggests we write a personal mission statement in the New Year instead of resolutions that don't stick and so I've started, and Mrs. Hughes keeps returning to my mind as an example of Who I'd Like To Emulate, she's a good person, a wise, and a kind person and as hard-working as an ox in a yoke. She has no illusions.
I think of her when I get whiny, or bitchy, or say in moments of weakness that my wrists are too thin because I'm such a thoroughbred. I think of her saying, "Stop flannelling and get on."