I finished a book this morning that made the case for Anti-Feminism. Basically, almost reverting back to the 50’s. Which makes most women absolutely cringe.
It makes me cringe, but not because I’m all “I am woman – hear me roar!” but because my husband works a job where he is gone for a week or two at a time, only getting six days off when he is home, and then leaving again. It’s the nature of living in Wyoming. That’s how it is.
That sucks. I mean, absolutely, completely, sucks.
Because I’m always the bad guy. I never get to greet my husband at 6 PM, smiling, ready to get a few minutes to sit in the corner with a cosmo while the children jump all over my darling husband.
No, instead, I’m the one that’s flipping my shiznit when my husband walks into the house after two weeks, with a bag full of laundry and dirty boots. I’m the one that is clawing at the door the next day, ready to get some me time without a kid following me to the bathroom and asking about pooping, for the hundred millionth time that day. I’m the one that is jumping in to the car and jet-setting an hour away to the nearest Starbucks so that I can just sip a coffee drink that I didn’t have to make myself or smell-test the milk of, because I haven’t made it to the grocery store yet. (And this is only with two kids, what the hell-o is wrong with me that I’d want at least two more?!?! Oh right, baby smell. That’s totally not the only reason. Although, it may be. I’m still unsure.)
So, in order for us to be able to afford my husband finding a job where he not only gets to come home to his
darling wonderful superwoman wife, I have to get a job. It’s not because I “want” to (although I must admit, seeing other grownups consistently would be nice, but then I remember that I’m majoring in EDUCATION, to like, teach and stuff. What is wrong with me?) it’s because I have to, so The Husband can come home every night.
I mean, he is missing out on his children. I have to tell him what’s going on when I talk to him at night, after the children are in bed.
Back to the book. I agree with the basic sentiment of the book. Women are happier when they take care of their own children. I don’t agree with everything the public school system teaches children, so it makes me nervous to even think about sending my kiddos there. Etc, etc, etc.
I don’t agree that children are irreparably harmed by going to day care, even from a young age. I don’t believe that children are harmed emotionally or any other way by having their mothers work outside the home.
I’ll be honest, my children have been to daycare twice, for only three-four month spans. So, a total of about 8 months, and they are five and four.
I’m moving on to the big, bad University in August, where I will be finishing out my BA in Secondary Education. (I’m bragging, ahem, sorry). I have mentioned before that I plan on having more children. Mostly because my womb is begging me, pleading with me, crying into my pillow every night, “Have more children, dang it! I’m DYING here!” Uh, ahem, moving on.
I am already feeling guilt.
I can’t stop going to school for four years again. It took me 3 years to get an AA — I can’t do that with my BA. I have to get a job in the next few years, or my children are going to miss out on their dad, and their dad is going to miss out on them, which they already are. That sucks.
But, then, I have friends that tell me that by going to school, I’m being selfish. By planning on working, I’m being selfish.
I think of adorable, tiny babies crying when I leave them at daycare (I know, it hasn’t even happened yet) and I already feel the guilt begin to settle.
And it’s overwhelming.
The guilt of me not being able to take care of my own children because I married someone almost twice my age that wasn’t prepared for children.
The guilt of having my children when I was 18 & 19 years old because I couldn’t wait any longer, and setting up my future children to have to be away from their mommy.
The guilt of not doing more than I have to prepare. To think ahead.
I thought I was over wanting more children.
I thought I was happy with my small family, the way it is.
Then, last year, it hit me that I wanted more, that I wished for more.
I feel guilt from that too, that I’m not happy with just two. I need more.
Today, I feel guilty.
And I’m not sure what to do about it.
Because I’m not facing any of the problems that I’m feeling guilty over, yet. I’m not even there, yet. And still, there’s the guilt.
Raring it’s ugly head and staring it’s beady little red piercing eyes in to my soul and whispering in to my ear, You aren’t good enough for them. What are you thinking? You are a horrible, horrible mother. You are setting your children up for failure.
Of course, I went to daycare as a young child (technically, more of a “family member” type daycare, I still call the daycare provider “Mama”) and I turned out swell. What? I totally did.
Ok, maybe not.
No, I’m sure I did.