Sharing is Caring

Photo credit: Anne Taintor

I thought, for a minute, that my son had lice this week. I peeked down on his head while he worked on homework and panic set in as I saw the white specks everywhere. Come to find out, he had gotten in a sand fight on Monday and those exceptionally white grains had been coating his scalp all week. He’s not a vigorous shampooer, preferring a slather and rinse method that does absolutely nothing for the gradue on his scalp. If those grains of sand had turned out to be eggs, I would be cleaning and certainly not writing this morning. 

Though this minor freak out was over before I knew it, it was only a day or so before a scarier one took place. Watching my kids speed around on their scooters in the driveway, I gasped as one flew directly into the street without looking. I panicked. My brain made me see every possibility of this action in 2.3 seconds, in great detail. Being a Mom with OCD is a real funsucker sometimes. I screamed “DRIVEWAY ONLY!” out the door, which was met with a sassy “OOOOO.KAAAAAAAAAAAY!” from my daughter. That child, born of fire, forcing a new gray hair to sprout on my head each day. 

The physical and psychological taxation on becoming and being a mom is not fair and needs to stop. Each day brings with it a new worry with these kids of mine and my tendency to hoard and try to control those worries is problematic. I’m only five feet tall and all the demands of motherhood in our society are too much for my petite frame. I can’t be a mom, worker, domestic goddess, social butterfly, and a perfect partner. “A woman’s day is never done” quite a few have told me. My response? “Well, it should be.”

I’m forty-one now, almost forty-two. Older, wiser, and definitely a touch bitchier. Go ahead and call me that if you want, it’s a compliment really. You see, I want to enjoy all the roles I get to play in this one life of mine so I’m going to go ahead and protest society’s expectations of me. This protest, in fact, has already begun. Just ask my kids. They had mini corn dogs with a side of hot dog wrapped up in the butt ends of a loaf of (gasp) white bread for dinner the other night. They ate it, and happily. Guess who else was happy? I was.

Safe from lice and horrible accidents for another day, I am now sitting alone with my computer as their dad takes care of their needs. What are they doing now? Did they brush their teeth? Did he get a haircut? Did she kick one or both of her brothers? All these questions I have must remain unanswered because that mental burden is his today. Releasing control and worry is not easy. Those expectations that I thought were heaped upon me as soon as my body was shared were actually heaped upon myself. Enough of that, ladies.  We may have superpowers but we are, after all, just human. Time to step back a bit and learn to deflect the expectations onto our male comrades in this life.

Feminism, for me anyways, is less about equality and more about sharing the miraculous burden and blessing of being human. I used to think that it couldn’t be done right if I didn’t do it or direct it and that’s a whole lot of bullshit. My kids are safe today. And loved. And happy. Why? Because I have shared my burden with him and have released my worries about lice and car accidents into the great abyss of yesterday. I feel good about this, delightfully free. I will continue on in my protest, being unabashedly female in all the ways I want to be, embracing my badass side and skipping PTO meetings because I just don’t have the time. Sharing our burden really is caring—for yourself, for him, and for them.