what I write about
she has fallen and now she is awake
The closer I get to starting back at work, the more anxious I get and the angrier I get.
I’m angry at everyone from my father to friends to Wolfman’s coworkers because all of them presume that he will be bored with staying at home. Bored with our child. With the undercurrent that I wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, shouldn’t be. In spite of what he says, in spite of what we say. We just don’t know or understand. We couldn’t possibly be relying on intimate knowledge of ourselves – gender roles win every time dontchaknow? Because history has obviously shown one of us craves intellectual stimulation and work and it wasn’t Wolfman, in spite of what everyone keeps telling me
I’m angry at Wolfman for not taking this seriously enough. For not magically fixing my anxiety. For staying up drinking and gaming til 3am and leaving the freezer door open last night. For not waking when our daughter stirs so even if I weren’t feeding to sleep most of the time I’d still have to wake up, then wake him up. For not having done his wisdom teeth before now. For acting like certain chores and expectations I have are my own unique and crazy perversions.
I’m angry at myself for being so anxious. For applying for another job that’s probably going to be a better paid version than my current one even though I want to change paths but the lure of the familiar and more pay is just too much. For not being able to explain my anxiety in a way that makes Wolfman understand what I need him to do.
I’m angry at the world because I get paid shit in spite of my education because I am in a feminised field. For telling me over and over and over that I’m too demanding or too much of a perfectionist or a clean freak or a middle-class obnoxious ‘mommy’ who cares too much about appearances or mean simply because I have standards. Because it tells men that not doing a job, or doing a half-arsed job, or procrastinating until someone else does it, is all okay as long as it’s a woman’s job they’re fucking up. For telling me over and over that his decisions are all logical and normal and okay and personal but mine are suspect and probably because of all that shit I read and I don’t I know that it’s all my fault. And for telling me that I should just be grateful he does anything.
I’m angry at my douchebag brother-in-law for congratulating me on the weight BunBun has lost (hint: none, she just got taller and ‘you lost weight’ is not a universal compliment). I’m angry at Maman for explaining how I can’t expect higher social consciousness from someone ‘so smart’. For denigrating my degree. For doubting my devotion to BunBun.
I’m angry at the constant fucking questions about ‘still’ feeding and ‘still’ waking at night and when I’ll wean, when I’ll put her in her own room, when I’ll switch the carseat around, when I’ll give her cow milk, when I’ll do cry-it-out, when I’ll leave her overnight, when I’ll move back, when I’ll have another baby.
I’m angry a lot right now.