Essay on on line dating
I was there with my mother who was helping me take care of my ten-month-old baby. I found myself, as I crammed my thighs into my shapewear, saying, “Oh, well, I love my husband, he is the perfect man for me and it was love at first sight, but I would never willingly enter into this state of servitude again.” I had not known that I felt that way until I said it. That night at the party, I kept thinking about it, and on the flight home, I kept thinking about it, and no matter how I looked at that phrase I couldn’t make it any less true. I firmly believe that having children has made me smarter and better and more interesting, and fuck you to any women’s mag that doesn’t think so too. I have a ten-month-old and a three-and-a-half-year-old. Otherwise, throughout the day I do housework, cook, try not to go insane.
But I breastfeed and my baby doesn’t take a bottle well and I couldn’t imagine how my husband could take care of the baby at night without me and my mammary glands, and so I brought my mother and my baby with me to New York. I love them so much that it hurts to look at them and I am pretty sure they are the best, smartest, scrappiest, funniest boys in the world, and having them changed my life.
She may very well want to spend all day with her children and stay up at night working.Aside from our cultural expectation that women should spread themselves thin in order to spend time with their children, there is also the bald fact that some women want to. If he told a nanny that he and the other boys saw a leprechaun spit on the slide, she wouldn’t get to the bottom of it; she’d just let it go because who even knew what that weird little boy was saying now.God knows, even if we could afford a nanny or daycare, the idea of someone else taking care of the baby makes me uneasy. It takes a mother to continue questioning all the way until you ascertain that the leprechaun spit is actually bird poop. If you are with your children, you are not writing.If something disastrous were to happen and my husband were to leave me or die or simply vanish, I would never remarry. Part of this is out of intense loyalty to my husband, but part of it is because the idea of cooking some idiot man dinner for the rest of my life makes my skin prickle with rage. The three-and-a-half-year-old goes to preschool for a good portion of the day, but the preschool isn’t state-sponsored, so it eats our entire childcare budget. My husband leaves at five in the morning and gets home at eight in the evening most days, so I am short on adult conversation or help.But how can I be so angry at the idea of cooking dinner for a theoretical and highly imaginary man when I cook dinner for my husband, whom I love, all the time? That means I am home with the ten-month-old full time. Many women would kill to stay at home with their babies. There is a deep, almost suffocating solitude to my days, and yet there is also the California ocean, the flowers, the breeze. I am tethered by many things: the baby’s nursing schedule, the three-year-old’s attention span. To sit quietly for a moment with no one touching me is out of the question. Showering is something I have to ask my husband for time to do each night.