Note To Self: My Husband Is Not The Patriarchy

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I'm angry. Right now.

This isn't just any run-of-the-mill anger. It's the kind of seething anger that pops up every now and then without notice.

It's anger without a reason.

This might sound crazy, but I'll be perfectly happy one minute -- and then ten minutes later I'm fuming. It literally comes from no where. There's typically nothing that predicates it. It just happens.

I try to get rid of it -- try to step away for a moment and breathe. The anger doesn't happen all the time. But it happens enough. And I become bitter and resentful for an entire evening.

It's truly awful.

It's basically this -- out of nowhere I become angry at the fact that I'm the woman in the house. And just to be clear -- I LOVE being a woman. The anger stems from this feeling that there's this unspoken, subconscious expectation of me based on my gender.

Don't get me wrong -- my husband is a feminist. A big one. He's amazing. He pulls his weight. He supports me totally and completely. He loves his children fiercely.

 

end patriarchy
Image: Charlotte Cooper via Flickr

Yet sometimes. Sometimes I can't help but resent the fact that he's a man (which I'm glad he is.) Although he cooks and helps with the cleaning, and splits night-time feedings 50/50 -- I still feel short-changed as a woman.

Because I worry. I worry about every goddamn thing, and my beautiful husband looks so goddamned relaxed. The thing about Ernesto is that he knows how to kick his shoes off and read a book in the middle of chaos. He's not being lazy -- the man works his ass off. But he knows how to take a moment -- a breather.

And I don't know how to do that. As a woman, it's ingrained in me to care for everything -- even when it's not necessary. There is this deep-seated unspoken expectation within myself to run the household. To make sure the kids get their baths, to do endless loads of laundry, to maintain the kitchen, to wipe down the bathrooms, to change the sheets, to make appointments for the kids, to schedule playdates, to sign the kids up for activities, to make sure the kids are well dressed, etc, etc, infinity, etc.

My husband does a lot. Hell, dinner wouldn't get made without him. I wouldn't have any food in my house if it weren't for his vigilant shopping expeditions with the kids. And did I mention he brings home most of the money?

So why am I angry? Why am I complaining? I decided to have a family -- I should be grateful. What the fuck is wrong with me?

 Continue reading at motherhoodismagic.com

 

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