Fuck You, Dear

I said fuck you to Jeff this morning. On the subway. Muttered it, but no doubt the woman next to me heard it, and maybe surrounding straphangers, too.

This is not part of a normal course of events. As much as 2 married people can, we basically like each other, even sometimes a lot.

But last night was a rough one. Jeff home late, so me alone to nag, cajole, beg, and eventually stomp my feet and scream a little, to get the kids to do their homework (a nightly teeth-pulling with Jack), and eat their goddamn second dinner (2 bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios for Jack, Annie’s Organic Fake Spaghettio things for Rose), then drag more homework out of Jack, then ice cream, as promised, then a scuffle over sprinkle equity, then a kerfuffle over who brushes teeth first, leading to increasingly desperate texts to Jeff – “Where are you” and “WHERE ARE YOU” and “WHEN WILL YOU BE HERE” and I think a “HURRY UP” to drive the point home.

More of the same this morning, all weekday morning standard-issue stuff:

get out of bed, I said get out of bed; come in and eat something; no, I can’t find the little green bag full of silly bands, why didn’t you ask me last night; Jack, change your shirt, you wore it yesterday AND slept in it last night, I don't care if it's your favorite Rangers shirt; I’m writing down a list of all the things you need to do before you can read: 1. Get dressed, including socks; 2. eat breakfast; 3. pack your backpack; what is your red folder doing over here?!; Rosie, if you don’t like this outfit, FIND SOMETHING ELSE; Rosie, now we’re late!

You can fill in the rest, there are no surprises.

So then a rare subway ride together with Jeff, and he reminds me he’ll be out of town for work next week—3 mornings, 3 nights to fend for myself in a Park Slope top-floor apartment version of Lord of the Flies; I’m pretty sure my head will be impaled on a wiffle-bat pike, buzzing with insects, before Jeff is back. And no one will have gone to bed before 10, and I’ll stay up till 1:00 every night to have a few zoned out moments where nobody’s trying to rip me limb from limb, dice me into equal-sized chunks, split me down the middle. So I’m mad and I’m sad and I’m anxious, and I’m not getting the sincere apology -- the handwringing, furrowed-brow apology I feel I’m owed, but instead the reaction implies hell, we’re all strung out, so what do you want from me, I have no choice, and in that moment, in that second, it’s all so completely unacceptable, and the F-U flies. Enjoy, my fellow subway passengers, a little water-cooler story for your co-workers. “A lady next to me on the subway said Fuck U to her husband, and then she sat with her head in hands the rest of the way to work!”

I acknowledge it – complaining stressed out working mom blather is as interesting and creative and original at this point as is complaining about the weather. Another treasured hobby of mine. But like the weather, the issue persists. This is how it goes for working moms (and we all work, btw, but we’re not paid for that work), and that’s tough shit for us. In this country, that’s how much this work is valued. Like, not.

And that, dear children, is your bedtime story tonight. Hope you don’t have nightmares! I know I will. And no, you can't have another glass of water!