I’m just a guy in pajamas, chuckling about a “Yo Gabba Gabba!” episode my year-old daughter and I were watching, when I see a guy with a machete out my window. He’s hacking away at branches near my fence as two other men hammer spikes in my lawn. They undoubtedly work for the city. This type of thing ticks me off.

We’ve had sewer problems ever since my wife and I bought our home in Baton Rouge, La., a few years ago. The pumping station on our street used to give out during big rainstorms, spilling sewage down the slope of our yard, and in 2008, when Hurricane Gustav knocked the power out for two weeks, it was unspeakable. Since then, other things have gone wrong: the worst oil spill in history happened on our coast, the economy wallowed and my teaching contract with Louisiana State University was terminated because of budget cuts. So, lately, I’ve been a little on edge. Seeing these guys in my yard doesn’t help.

The truth is, ever since our daughter was born, I have become strange with worry. More often than my family realizes, I struggle with doubts about my capability, my authority and my power. Losing a job and raising a child can do that to a person, and it has done it to me. It’s nearly noon, and my hair is skewed. All I’ve said today is, “You go potty?”

Still, my property is my property. I look around for my dog, a harmless mutt, and picture the two of us barging out of the door, furious, sending these workers scrambling. I go to my bedroom and put on an old pair of jeans and a dirty T-shirt. By the time I get outside to confront them, my daughter in the crook of my arm, the guys are standing in the street.