My Husband Finally Sees the Ticker
We were both victims of patriarchal notions.
On a recent evening, I decided to make the ticker visual. Every woman who is a wife and mother (or has mild to severe anxiety) knows precisely what I mean when I say ticker. Most cis-hetero men are scratching their heads. That’s okay — Hubby did too.
The ticker is the running list of tasks required to keep the household and the kids in working order. Order paper towels, feed the dog, kid needs new shoes, kid outgrew summer clothes, pay the doctor, order groceries, plan a birthday party, call a plumber. . . the ticker shows up when your brain isn’t occupied with something challenging.
You’re cutting chicken — order dish soap.
You’re folding laundry- sign up for summer camp, the kid needs new shoes, the dog needs vaccines.
It’s worst when you lie down to sleep at night. Like a hamster snorted a line of coke before jumping on a very loud treadmill at a breakneck pace — in your head.
The ticker robs us of daydreaming; it robs us of strategic thinking power, it robs us of rest.
The ticker sucks.
The ticker is also necessary.
I used to think I had a fantastic partner because when I tossed him something from the…
