I profess a profound love for all things Wonder Woman, as many of you know, and I’m passing this along to my daughters. Because there’s part of me that wants them to believe they can be superheroes, they can do whatever they want, and that they have magical powers. I want them to believe they’re extraordinary.
But I realized in all my blind idolatry, that I am not, nor will I ever be, anything closely resembling Wonder Woman.
I will never be everything I want to be or that anyone else wants me to be. I will never be enough. I will fall short. I will have piles of papers. I will stay on the computer too much and too long. I will start a nonprofit organization that will take all of my time (and then some). This nonprofit means a lot to me, and yes, there’s the possibility it’ll bite the dust. But that’s a risk I’m willing to take. Wonder Woman could just use her magic lasso to catch her dream, but alas, I don’t have one. Perhaps I could fashion one out of the same dirty yoga pants and t-shirt with pit stains I’ve been wearing for the last three days.
Instead, I have anxiety, depression, and demons. Sometimes they get the better of me and I have a hard time adjusting to social situations or relaxing. That’s me. Yes, I take medication. No, it’s not the magical answer, it also takes therapy and hard work. I ain’t no Wonder Woman.
I don’t get all the laundry done. Or when I do, the clean clothes lie in piles because no one else folds and puts them away. I don’t always cook dinner. Sometimes there’s breakfast for dinner. Sometimes there’s frozen dinner. Sometimes I cut myself while I’m chopping vegetables. Sometimes things get burned. I don’t have a paying job outside the home. I do plenty of work, but it’s “women’s work,” and it’s nonprofit work, and it’s mom work. So I have a lot of trouble filling in that blank on papers that ask me for my occupation because it’s so much more than fucking “homemaker,” which makes my blood boil. Wonder Woman wouldn’t stand for that. Or maybe for occupation I should start filling in “Wonder Woman Wannabe,” only I don’t think the IRS would like that too much.
Sometimes I drink wine. Sometimes I stay up late trying to get things done. Sometimes I am tired. I don’t think Wonder Woman ever gets tired. I doubt she has a problem with self harm or self-deprecating humor. Sometimes I hire babysitters to get my work-that-I-don’t-get-paid-for done. Sometimes I miss biddy basketball games. I ain’t no fucking Wonder Woman.
I’m terrible at intimacy. I am neglectful. I run on fumes. And I’m full of excuses. Wonder Woman wouldn’t make excuses. She’d Just Do It. Like Nike.
I’m fucking sick of cleaning up after everyone else. I’m exhausted by trying to keep everyone else on task and being the bad mommy and wife. Abby tattling on everyone every two minutes and Izzy refusing to clean up after herself or do her eye therapy…in addition to battles over regular everyday homework.
I give up. Take me or leave me. I am who I am. I don’t think I can change. So dust your hands off and be done with me. Wipe my dirt off on your pants. And I’m turning in my cape.
Because I ain’t no fucking Wonder Woman.