When my daughter was born and my world shrunk to an endless loop of nursing sessions and diaper-changings and children’s television, I picked up the book The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan, hoping to counteract my brain’s creeping descent into sleep-deprived mush. I remember sitting on the couch, infant daughter squirming in arms/latched onto my breast, while my three-year old son prattled nearby. Book propped against me daughter’s body, I was totally caught up in figuring out what the solution was to the 1950’s pampered/bored/Valium-popping housewife’s “problem that has no name.”
Turns out the solution is a job. Hmm. Who knew?
(I park myself in a beach chair and read about their struggles.)