Saturday, July 18, 2015

Reproductive Ironies

The greatest irony of female biology and reproduction is this: The one function that rudely and loudly reminds you that your body exists to make babies is the very thing that renders you wholly incapable of handling the ones you have.

Because the kids you have don't give two shits that you're an anemic basket case who can barely crawl out of bed by 11 a.m. All they know is that their mother is a psychotic, cast iron bitch who's yelling her head off for no apparent reason in between naps, bouts of weeping, and screaming "GET THE EFF OUT OF THIS BATHROOM!!" at the top of her lungs. 

At least that's how it goes in my world.

But really, it's just as well for them, since my capacity to parent--already limited to begin with--is reduced considerably. My misery is their boondoggle, as they're left to their own devices to watch even more TV and eat even more crap than usual.

It's then that particularly odd and disturbing conversations take place. Conversations in which Isaac claims that walking on the kitchen counter-top is his "destiny," that he needs a clementine to "fuel [his] epic journey," that "you can track science through nature and back again," and asks "where's your Christmas spirit?"

See, it's my noble moon cycle that forces me to abdicate parenting to the Kratt brothers and Scooby Doo. The other 75% of the time I would never EVER eat coffee ice cream in bed while my kids learned new vocabulary from PBS Kids and Cartoon Network.

Ok, fine. Maybe 50%. I'll give it 50%. Ok, fine.

47%.

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