Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Open Letter to My Reproductive System: We Need to Set Some Boundaries Here

Dear Reproductive System,

Look. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time now, but we really need to set some boundaries.

I’ve known you since I was 14 years old, and things were fine between us. At first. At first, I was excited about you. Like, “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret” where’s-my-period-already-everyone-has-their-period-but-me type shit.

But the bloom came off that rose pretty fucking quick, because I then spent the ensuing years up until age 29 spending unbelievable amounts of time and money on you, resenting your existence, and trying to prevent you from making a baby by mistake.

Then at age 29, I took you out for a spin and I have to say you performed beautifully! You made two healthy babies. SLOW CLAP. GOOD JOB. I am eternally grateful to you. For reals.

Let's be honest though: that was pretty much the one and only time you were useful and fulfilling the purpose you were meant to serve, and to be frank, your job here is done now. Pink slip, shut down, all jobs shipped overseas. 

You're the new rust belt, and I have zero plans to make you great again. 

Ever.

I will be 40 in less than four short months and yet. And YET, every single month without fail, you tell me to make a baby. I’ll be sitting at my desk at work, like MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE ANOTHER BABY. WOULDN’T THAT BE FUN?!

Or I will see a baby on the street in a stroller or at the airport eating Gerbers Graduates Puffs out of a little plastic snack cup and say to the mom/myself WHAT A CUTE BABY ITS HEAD SMELLS GOOD AND ITS TOES ARE CUTE I WANT TO PLAY WITH THAT BABY’S TOES I SHOULD GROW ANOTHER BABY RIGHT NOW.

Then I will call Geoff say LET’S MAKE ANOTHER BABY WHEN I GET HOME FROM WORK TODAY, and he will ask me if I’m crazy, which of course I am, because when I look at the calendar, I discover that it wasn’t my idea at all! 

It was YOURS!

It was my ovaries planting evil thoughts of a third baby in my brain, and all the miserable sleeplessness, arguing, beauty of pregnancy, bodily destruction, destroyed nipples, financial ruin, and enormous carbon footprint putting another primate on the planet and under my roof would entail.

Then when I don’t do what you say, you get PISSED, apparently, because two weeks later you wake me up to a fucking BLOODBATH that looks like a still from the set of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, with debilitating pain, three extra pounds of water weight, and the need to eat Cinnamon Rice Chex out of a mixing bowl for dinner.

Yes, I know there are all sorts things I could do to get you to step off. 
Like intrauterine doo-hickies and pills and shit, but my skin and boobs can’t really deal with any of that, and my cervix is a one-way street, as I learned the hard way during labor with baby #1 when they tried to manually dilate me (you?) and I cried from pain for the first time since I was seven, probably. 

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want you to like, “go away” entirely because of some disease or even retreat into menopause forever, because I realize there are some benefits to your ongoing existence such as thick lustrous hair, for example. (Granted, I wouldn’t miss thick lustrous hair on my face as much as I would on my head, but that’s a different topic).

I just need you to chill out, is what I’m saying. Like I just need some space and some boundaries. I really need you to lay off the throttle with the MAKE A BABY MAKE A BABY MAKE A BABY stuff, and then I especially need you to dial back the “wake-up revenge massacre” when I refuse to do it.

It’s not that much to ask, is it?

Thanks,

Your Owner


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