Parents Need to Eat Too

Four (gulp) more years?

The sun pours in my window as I write this. The cats sit in puddles of light. Outside, the guys at the garage next door bang on cars and shout in Polish. Traffic streams by on the BQE at a relatively fast clip. It’s the same as it was yesterday, and yet I feel like I’m in a completely different world. At this time yesterday I was ebullient, absolutely certain that this country was in the process of changing leadership, of recognizing the mistakes we made four years ago and their disastrous results. For several days I’d been convinced that the polls were wrong, that it wouldn’t be close. Look at all the under-30s, who don’t have land lines! They’re beyond the reach of the pollsters! Look at all the new registrees! Most polls don’t consider them “likely voters” so they don’t get counted, either. It was going to be a cakewalk. I was sure of it. At this time yesterday, I was playfully considering what I would write here today–debating between a nod to Kerry’s Irish-Jewish thang with an ode to Corned Beef, and a big celebratory cake recipe. Instead, the idea of celebrating–or eating, for that matter–is nausea-inducing.

I’m not sure that I have anything constructive to say at this point, just words about fear. S and I are hoping to have a baby this year. That terrifies me more than anything. What if it’s a girl? What kind of restrictive, invasive country will she come of age in? The Supreme Court will be deciding issues concerning her body for the foreseeable future. If the election results continue the way they’re heading right now, that court will be stacked with ideologues ensuring that she won’t have much say over her own being. I’m too depressed to continue writing. More later, maybe.

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