Liars

by Sarah Manguso

By noon I’d showered, dressed, tidied the house of John’s shoes and clothes, put away laundry, swept the floor, watered the garden, moved boxes to the garage, cooked breakfast, eaten, done the dishes, taken out the recycling, handled correspondence, and made the bed. John had gotten up and taken a shit.

The trouble with spending the day with a small child is that at the end of it you’re physically exhausted, mentally emptied, and you have nothing to show for it but a filthy house, filthy clothes, raw and peeling hands, and the inability to see beyond babyhood.

The third sitter showed me photos of the child playing with other children, the child pushing a little cart, the child wearing his little raincoat. It pulled at my heart that so much growth had taken place away from Mama.

Each morning I woke up and looked at my to-do list and said aloud, Good thing I don’t have a job.

He still shitted like a bachelor, whenever and for however long he liked.

I thought about all the wives who had lived before birth control, before legal abortion, before the recognition of marital rape and domestic abuse, before women could buy a house or open a bank account or vote or drive or leave the house. I wanted to apologize to all the forgotten and unseen women who had allowed me to exist, all the women I’d sworn not to emulate because I’d wanted to be human—I wanted to be like a man, capable and beloved for my service to the world.

Parties and book festivals felt like death. Playgrounds and caterpillars felt like life. But I’d never have convinced myself of that when I was younger. Back then I wanted men to evaluate and approve of me as they would a man.

On Christmas Eve I wept at the tree because I couldn’t believe it was all for me, the family, the house, the tree, the table and chairs, the gifts from Santa, the sleeping child who would get out of bed soon and open everything up.