I'm a feminist, really I am
I briefly considered setting fire to my life yesterday. The quest for daycare overwhelms me. I got a stack of referrals from the handy-dandy referral service and immediately proceeded to stare dumbly at them. A slide to depressed inaction was not far behind. Looking at them, I knew that I would not be able to find someone to leave Gabriel with whom I would trust to care for him like I do.
I thought to myself, what if I did stay home with Gabriel? Could I? What would be the result? I think it would be good for G, in that his care would be loving and (somewhat) reliable. I would feel that I was doing my very best for my son. I can’t say that that would make me happy, but I might feel comfort in the way that fulfilling an obligation makes you feel all grown-up inside. I’m pretty sure my husband would leave me. Oh, and I would be $180,000 in debt with no way to pay it off.
The cons seem to weigh pretty heavily. I just can’t escape the feeling, though, that by handing my son over to another to raise, in effect, eight or nine hours out of the day, I am shirking my responsibility as a mother. I know, I know, stone me now. We have come such a long way from that antiquated line of thinking, and yet, right here, right now, I feel it welling up inside me, unbidden. That responsibility weighs heavily upon me. I felt it settle almost as soon as he was born. I staggered under its weight for weeks, months. I knew I had, in fact, destroyed that lighthearted and carefree (ha) life I had before. In its place is this, life with child at its center. It does not matter how I feel, if I am tired, or sad, or in pain, Gabriel still needs me. I brought him here and I must see him through to his independence.
If life were different or times were different, I’d be different. I’d be doing laundry by hand, married to an illiterate subsistence farmer, with six children playing around me on the dirt and think my life was pretty good. Or maybe not.
I’m not much of a thinker. I am more of a feeler who struggles vainly, gamely, to attach words to the sensations that move me. I’ve got a head for facts and all, but the important things I always trust my gut, even when I struggle to explain myself to myself. And struggle even harder to explain myself to beloved M who thinks first, and bends his emotions in the crushing grip of logic.
I’m still holding the match. It’s a powerful feeling, actually. I am obstinate where I feel that I am right. But am I?
I thought to myself, what if I did stay home with Gabriel? Could I? What would be the result? I think it would be good for G, in that his care would be loving and (somewhat) reliable. I would feel that I was doing my very best for my son. I can’t say that that would make me happy, but I might feel comfort in the way that fulfilling an obligation makes you feel all grown-up inside. I’m pretty sure my husband would leave me. Oh, and I would be $180,000 in debt with no way to pay it off.
The cons seem to weigh pretty heavily. I just can’t escape the feeling, though, that by handing my son over to another to raise, in effect, eight or nine hours out of the day, I am shirking my responsibility as a mother. I know, I know, stone me now. We have come such a long way from that antiquated line of thinking, and yet, right here, right now, I feel it welling up inside me, unbidden. That responsibility weighs heavily upon me. I felt it settle almost as soon as he was born. I staggered under its weight for weeks, months. I knew I had, in fact, destroyed that lighthearted and carefree (ha) life I had before. In its place is this, life with child at its center. It does not matter how I feel, if I am tired, or sad, or in pain, Gabriel still needs me. I brought him here and I must see him through to his independence.
If life were different or times were different, I’d be different. I’d be doing laundry by hand, married to an illiterate subsistence farmer, with six children playing around me on the dirt and think my life was pretty good. Or maybe not.
I’m not much of a thinker. I am more of a feeler who struggles vainly, gamely, to attach words to the sensations that move me. I’ve got a head for facts and all, but the important things I always trust my gut, even when I struggle to explain myself to myself. And struggle even harder to explain myself to beloved M who thinks first, and bends his emotions in the crushing grip of logic.
I’m still holding the match. It’s a powerful feeling, actually. I am obstinate where I feel that I am right. But am I?
posted by cmm at 11:32 AM
1 Comments:
Ah, what's a Monday without a little melodrama. Thank you for your words and support. Truly, it helps beyond measure to know that I'm not just some crazed, lone voice in the wilderness. Crazed of course, but not alone.
CM
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