I knew I’d be tired, I didn’t know I’d be furious.

anna furious
I knew I’d be tired, I didn’t know I’d be furious.
Furious waking up, after a brutal night, knowing I’ll be solo for hours on end.
Furious opening my social feed, to see some BS targeted ad telling me my baby must broken and I better buy their wonder program/white noise machine/essential oils or else.
Furious in the aisle, when the requests for purposefully placed, sugar-laden, cartooned-charactered cereal boxes are declined and met with a meltdown.
Furious at the checkout, when someone tells me these are the best days of my life.
Furious knowing I’ll never get a promotion because I manage my full client load in three days, and part-timers aren’t eligible for management.
Furious when my pregnant friend calls me in panic because she’s just been told her baby is “measuring big”.
Furious when “informed consent” during birth misses the “information” part.
Furious when we’re dropped cold by the health system so soon after it.
Furious when I get the stink eye breastfeeding my toddler in public.
Furious when I get stink eye bottle feeding my niece in public.
Furious when the babysitter cancels at the last minute.
Furious when my partner can run without fear of their organs falling out, and my physio appointments aren’t covered by Medicare.
Furious in the shower, finally alone, then hearing footsteps coming down the hall.
Furious when my teacher friend tells me of her principal’s instructions to spend weeks preparing her class of 8-year-olds for exams.
Furious when girls’ clothes and uniforms restrict their movement potential for play.
Furious that we know more scientifically about wine, coffee and tomatoes than we do about human milk.
Furious that we know DOUBLE the amount about erectile dysfunction than lactation.
Furious that the signs on the back of female public toilet doors are for bladder leakage products (what about funding women’s rehab?), sexual assault and DV support (needed, but also what about teaching men not to be dicks?), or telling us to make sure the men in our lives get their prostates checked (hello, responsible-for-everyone-else’s-wellbeing mental load).
Furious when I see adults laying into their kids.
Furious when a sweet kid I’ve never met looks up at me wide eyed and says “did I do something wrong?”
Furious when positive parenting programs and financial support for families have their funding cut (again, and again, and again).
Furious that the Stolen Generations are continuing, right now, due to ingrained, systemic, sanctioned racism.
Furious that most Australian children will see violent pornography before they have their first kiss, and that the technology exists to stop this, yet governments are refusing to implement it.
Furious that one in three single mothers live below the poverty line, yet billionaires are the ones getting tax handouts.
Furious when another mine is approved.
Furious when another politician claims “they didn’t know a thing”.
Furious that women are divided along arbitrary lines (breast/bottle, vaginal/c-sec, stay-at-home/working mother etc.) for no reason other than to make us feel like crap and prevent us collectivising.
Furious that motherhood feels hard for me, even with all the privilege I have, and knowing it’s way harder for others.
Furious when we’re told we just need to try harder to get the balance right.
Furious that we’re trained to believe “this is just the way things are”.
Furious because it’s a lie.
Furious because full force, crazy-eyes anger isn’t allowable when you’re a mum.
Well then.
You know what I say to that?
I am furious, for good reasons.
And I’m a bloody great mum.
If you’ve read this far, you probably are too.


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