Hullo my friendly freaks, and I hope all is well in your land. Myself, I'm feeling...well, I'm taking up too much space in my current manifestation. Every inch of my being has decided to extend itself outwards another inch. My clothes do not fit. My skinny jeans mock me from where they lie crumpled on a corner. I am an engorged pupa, ready to split. I'm hoping it's PMS.
Other than feeling like the ominous, giant Mr. StayPuff from Ghostbusters, things are well. Perhaps too well. I frown to think that me content equals me portly. Last year at this time I was pouring my sexual frustration into long runs, and had little appetite due to emotional chaos and desire and searing heat. I was a lithe, lean, sarcastic machine.
Nowadays, I'm borderline placid. Part of me misses my reliably caustic view on things (although my sister has obliquely indicated she does not). Being regularly serviced has also apparently awakened my other appetite, hence the cheerful stuffing of one's face...Dear Reader, I fear I am growing dull and lumpen.
I do believe this is a common terror facing most of us at this stage of our lives, when our days are enlivened by such things as picking out a different scented Method hand soap at Shoppers or trying on an uncharacteristically garish bathing suit. Crazy!
Of course, not having any children I am spared the heartbreaking banality of parenthood, the horrid songs and platitudes and attention to bowel movements and competitive mummying. For this, yes, I am grateful.
You, mothers, you have my sympathy. Never before in history has there been a time where so many women were this emancipated and educated, and yet felt compelled to join a cult of mummyhood that appears, frankly, moronic to an outside observer.
Observe: female with Masters in Comparative Literature breaking into a light sweat trying to find tickets online to the Wiggles (oh, monstrous). See: lady who once ran a successful small business employing 12 people now rapturously sermonizing on the dangers of BPA in sippycups while breastfeeding her 3-year old. Oh yes, you see them too--perhaps even are one.
What is wrong with you, I think. Do you feel guilty about having it all, and so invent fresh stresses, new challenges to rise to and measure yourself against? Cut yourself some slack. I fully intend to, if ever I procreate.
Hark back with me. When I was a child, I wasn't treated as a little treasure whose every whim must be tended to, or at least considered. On the contrary, I was made to work as soon as I can remember. Being put to work, aka given responsibility for manual labour, was probably the best thing to build my self-esteem while not losing sight of my own relative unimportance in intellectual or emotional matters. Why the heck would my mum ask me for my thoughts on moving to another town, or my opinion of her new boyfriend? I didn't know much of anything because I was a child.
Rather than be made ashamed of my own ignorance and insignificance, I was allowed to enjoy it. As long as I fulfilled my duties, did well in school and didn't hurt myself or others grievously, I could do what I pleased. As far as mum was concerned, that was my business. She might warn me not to do X or to make sure I did Y; if I chose to ignore that advice, well that was just too bad for me.
Mostly though, I got to figure out childhood physics like gravity and friction by myself. Note to self: do not fall out of tree. Reminder: tie up shoelaces before sprinting down gravel road. Etc. Valuable lessons I got to learn firsthand, with little or no interference.
An adherence to ignoring one's brood as much as possible was Parenting not too long ago, or maybe just my experience. It certainly seemed like those were more lackadaisical times when children (bless their hearts) were not taken so damn seriously, and mostly ignored, and everyone seemed the happier for it.
I know the response: you don't understand! You don't know what it's like these days, the other parents are CRAZY. Um, no, I do see that. In fact, perhaps the greatest obstacle to me wanting children (other than the obvious mess and expense and totality of it) is the fact that I find many parents completely gross and off-putting. The thought of joining their cult fills me with sheer terror.
If I overcame my other reservations and bred, I'd probably just choose not to hang out with these batshit crazy A-types, highly educated white ladies who attended Lilith Fair once upon a time and never recovered their senses. I'd befriend immigrant Chinese women, as they don't seem to take any shit from their kids and have an admirable work ethic. Who knows?
Such are my thoughts on modern parenthood. I intended to write about something completely different, of course, but got lured onto this tangent. Next week, I shall share the tale of Panties in the Mail. Oh, boy.
Cheers, Gretchie
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