In the Blood

by Lisa Unger

Because there is not enough of me for this child and another one. He wants all of me; I can see that. There is no room inside of me for anyone else.

Everybody hates a woman who doesn’t want another child, as if you’re in some way shirking your biological imperative.

Because everyone knows that a real woman, a good mother, has a healthy and happy baby. And a bad mommy has a troubled child who cries and can’t sleep through the night, who simultaneously rejects her and won’t let her out of his sight. The

And they look at you, with that look, trying to figure out what exactly you are doing wrong and hoping that they’re not doing it, too. And I want to tell them that I am just like them, doing all the same things and making the same mistakes.

We have more patience for girls who act like boys than boys who act like girls. A tomboy is considered cute. One day she’ll shuck her muddy jeans and put on a dress, and everyone will gasp at her beauty. They’ll all laugh about her tree-climbing, frog-catching days. But there’s no such tolerance for the boy who puts on a dress, who wants a toy kitchen or a baby doll to love. Jung

our anima is repressed, hated, derided. We hate our female selves. A boyish girl is perfectly acceptable. A girlish boy? Not so much. In certain places, you’d get your ass kicked, find yourself “gay-bashed.” You might even get yourself killed. That’s how much we hate our anima.