I’m at my ObGyn’s office and there are pregnant ladies glowing all over the place. And this is Santa Monica so their pregnancies are perfectly accessorized. Also there are babies. Everywhere. And toddlers. And children. Like an exquisite torment for my probably-still-robust ovaries, they are all being disturbingly cute. I’m going to get pregnant just sitting here.
I need a reality check right now. I need to spend a few hours with my kids, reminding myself of what parenting is really like. I need to clean some feces off some surfaces. I need to be pawed at interminably, my boobs and body inflamed with soreness, while someone screams and cries, wordless condemnation directed at me through tears for unspecified crimes against toddlerhood.
As my heart opens (for reasons I’m not ready to discuss here yet) so does my uterus. Damn it! Almost forgot I had one for a while there, except as it pertained to being attached to my vagina. Also when a guy I dated once (briefly) told me that that’s what sexual chemistry is, it’s your body saying “I want a baby with that guy.”
“That’s the last thing I’m thinking,” I assured him, as we got down to the act of non-procreation. And yet. Later it made me think about it. And realize that as insane as the whole procedure is-conception, pregnancy, birth, and then, the kicker of all kickers, parenting, I might be willing to do it all again.
Did I eat or drink something? Is this Ebola? Early onset dementia? Who injected estrogen into my coffee? What the fuck is happening that I would even be considering this insanity again?
What in motherly fuck?
“More will be revealed” that old twelve-step trope proves once again that sometimes cliches are that way for a reason. As my heart opens, everything comes flooding out like the contents of a previously repressed piñata, and there are candy canes, and party favors, and also other strange party trinkets that I didn’t even know I wanted.