What the fuck should I do with my life? Part Two

Part Two: Becoming A Princess and/or Having Children 
I could become a princess or a duchess and give birth to my prince and walk out to the world with an uncontracted uterus. 
 
When you ask them what they want to be when they grow up, all the little girls I work with have princess wrapped into some part of their desired occupation.

I want to be a princess chef.

A princess busdriver.
 
A princess policeman.

A doctor and a princess.

 

Little girls see these princesses on their diapers and their wallpaper, and they want to be them

Little girls see these princesses on their diapers and their wallpaper, and they want to be them

This is old news, but over the last couple of weeks, everyone was talking about Kate Middleton's uncontracted uterus. About the nerve she was sporting her "baby belly" to the whole world. Some people judged. Other marvelled at how brave she was. As though the scariest thing in the world is to reveal your uncontracted uterus.

Kate and her princes

I can relate. I fear the uncontracted uterus.
 
From a young age, my deepest fears included getting a double chin and having my stomach stick out more than my boobs. My boobs have always been tiny and so it wouldn't take much for my stomach to extend beyond them. To prevent the double chin, I used to read books and do my homework with my chin propped a pillow. To prevent the protruding abdomen, I was constantly doing crunches and sit-ups.
 
My stomach got hard and and chiselled. It's not that sad a story except once an osteopath told me that if I got pregnant, I would probably have a hard time. My abdominals would split in half and sag forever.
 
I'm ashamed that this terrifies me so much.

I'm ashamed that this is one of the main reasons I am terrified of having children.

One of the other reasons is that someone told me that since having kids, she can't use tampons anymore. They just slide out. As for the diva cup, alas, it leaks.

Apparently this is not that common.

Usually the vag recovers quite well.
 
If not, we all have high vaginas that will never ever desert us.

My High Vagina. Me and Keira Knightley both have one.

Once I wrote that birth was a Hideous Annihilation for someone else.
 
At the time, I think I was drinking too much.

Now I am thinking, What the fuck should I do with my life?

Despite my sit-up frenzies and pillow facelifts, I used to think that I would grow up and become a wonderful mother. I babysat like crazy and imagined that I would be like all my favourite moms, making whole grain banana bread, reading to my children, and having a job that allowed me to be around when they came home from school for lunch.
 
Now I am afraid of a saggy belly?

The saggy stomach, the tamponless vagina, probably these are terrible reasons not to have children. What are the good reasons?

Overpopulation. Climate change. Having children during a tornado or during the end of the world is impractical.
 
A couple of weeks ago I sent myself the following email:

Don't ever have children. No children for you. You are hysterical. Chill the fuck out.

I had just had a mammoth tantrum over whether or not to have a smoothie for breakfast, or oatmeal, or both. It was pathetic. 

27-year-old tantrums may be a good reason not to have children.
 
The other reason is, the kid may end up being just like you.

Fuck.

My friend Fern likes animals signficantly more than people, and children.

I was with her when she learned that someone who she didn't particularly like had given birth.

"Why the fuck did she have a kid? She barely has her shit together herself. What is it that makes people arrogant enough to believe that they are worthy of reproduction?"
 
She went on a rant about people passing on shitty genes and suffering and babies being bad for the environment. Her rant left me somewhat offended and taken aback. At the time, I had just begun to reconcile myself to contaminating the gene pool with my own hideous annihilation. This was before I got my job at the Montessori school.
 
Children are delightful for varying amounts of time. I might never be able to forgive my child if my stomach expanded and then never came back down to the same flat, hard formation ever again. What a horrible burden for the child to bear. It would have to spend its whole life making up for my sad saggy stomach. I tell myself that I would also resent a child if it wrecked my yoga practice, and that probably it would. But then I think, what is a better thing to do, to press into your hands and lift yourself off the ground with one leg behind your head and the other up your ass, or to make a real live person who in twenty years will probably be better at everything you’ve ever tried in your life?

Hard to say.

I guess we'll see how effective the withdrawal method turns out to be and then we'll find out, or we won't.  

The End.

What the fuck should I do with my life? Part One

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

I fired my psychologist

Supersize versus Superskinny

Not That Kind of Girl

 

 

Snow Day

My career as a kept woman seems like a lifetime ago. 
 


This is the dress I became a kept woman in

When I first thought of the the word “miscarriage” as “missed the carriage,” and pictured the baby on its way out and into one of those fancy prams before it fell on the sidewalk, I thought that I was very clever.

Last Tuesday, it started to snow in the middle of the night.  I woke up at 4 something to do my yoga practice and I didn’t notice anything on the ground.  While I was practicing, I still didn’t notice any snow falling down.  

At 6:35, I noticed a message on my phone from my co-worker.  I was delighted surprised to learn that the school board had cancelled school and we had the whole day off. 

What an excellent opportunity to catch up on my writing and translation studies.  Instead I killed the day napping, sneezing, and masturbating on the internet.  I had a mediocre cold, due to the fact that the children I work with have a great deal of snot inside of them.  They sneeze a lot, and as Eco-Yogini accurately points out in this wonderful Green Phone Booth Post about pre-schoolers and their parents, it is unrealistic for young children to figure out how to sneeze into their elbows.  They have only had elbows and sneezes for a limited amount of time.  Our expectations are too high. 
 
Anyways, the most interesting part of my Snow Day was possibly my nap.  It was the deepest nap in the world, the kind that you stir from only briefly and think, “How do I ever manage to be awake?”  I thought that I would sleep forever.  Towards the end, I remembered dreaming that I was masturbating with a plastic pink coat hanger.  When it occurred to me during my dream that I might try to get on with my day and do something else, I had the distinct thought, “But how will I ever manage to do anything else?”  In case you are wondering, my technique did not involve the hanger’s pointy end, or any sort of penetration.  Still, when I told the Boatman about my afternoon, he invented a new word in honour of the coat hanger experience: "Masturbortion."

And my great big nap he called, “Napsturbation.” 
 

Pink Plastic Coat Hanger

The night before the snow day, I dreamed I miscarried a delicate pink baby fetus.  It was in the shape of a perfect miniature baby which I’m pretty sure doesn’t  happen when you actually miscarry.  Then the contours of the pink baby crumbled like thin frail pieces of pink plastic that revealed the baby’s hollow centre.  A little plasticky spine had also be miscarried/urinated out, but the spine was separate from the rest of the baby.  It wasn’t on the inside.  I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works either.  The outside of the baby disintegrated entirely, and I was sad because then the only proof of my miscarriage that I could show the Boatman was the unconvincing plasticky spine which resembled a child’s toy.  (Or in the Montessori world, a child’s work material...)  No one would ever believe there’d been a baby inside of me.  In any case, I awoke before I could show the Boatman our broken, unborn child. 



Pink Plastic Fetus.  This one is all in one piece.  The one from my dream was not

I told him about it and he wasn’t that disappointed.  He is still luxuriating in his newly invented words.

This morning I woke up and recalled no dreams.  And I’m pretty sure I’m not pregnant.  

The End.





A pink baby carriage, not to be missed.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt
 
What the fuck should I do with my life? Part Two.
The Boatman and the Maxi Pad
Birth Control