Political infertility

Alarmed as I am about the possible ramifications of my candidate of choice, Omama (as per Little Girl), not winning in the election just 27 (!) days away, I have felt compelled to do something rather than just worry.

Husband, however, being either pragmatic or fundamentally un-American (and after all, he’s not American), has discouraged my plans. It’s true: my state is unswervingly red. I can’t change that. And sure, I have a toddler and two jobs. I didn’t want to canvass door-to-door, not being eager to to argue with my immediate neighbors, to whom I was assigned by MoveOn.org; besides, I get overheated enough when I talk politics with people who agree with me in all particulars. Then Husband didn’t want me to host a calling party because of his disdain for “activists,” believing that they mostly just want, superficially, to be a part of something without caring what it is. And it’s not like I can travel to a battleground state. So those things were out.

Instead I’ve donated, I’ve made calls for the campaign, I’ve talked to everyone I know, I’ve encouraged those in my mothers’ group to register to vote, to do advance voting, to leave their kids with me so they can go to the polls (though in this case I have not mentioned my own political opinions unless asked). But it’s out of my hands. For something I feel so strongly about–consumed by, sometimes; I read political news late into every night–I feel helpless. It reminds me of infertility: to want something so much, and to have no control over the outcome.