So, wanna hear a regular conversation I continue to have with people? All people. People I know but haven’t seen for a while, people who are complete strangers to me, people I’m related to and have known me since before I had pubic hair?
This isn’t a topic I choose to discuss, and honestly, would rather not hear people’s deeply held convictions about, but telling the cashier at Safeway or the preschool teacher or my aunt to shut the f@#* up, and mind their own damn business tends to create difficulties in my daily life–like bad service or having the dogs set on me. So I do what other good, polite Canadian girls do. I smile, nod my head, and at the soonest possible moment, I change the subject.
So, what, you ask, is this mystery topic? Well, for anyone who has more than 2.5 kids, this is going to sound familiar, but for the rest of you, listen up, and listen good:
“Oh. Are these all you children?! All of them. I mean, your actual children?” Now, as a point of fact they are my biological children–meaning I did squeeze them out of my body, every single one of the little termites, and I have the saggy vagina to show for it–but does it never occur to these vapid dunces that even if I’d adopted every single one of them they’d still be my actual children!
I nod my head as my eyes glaze, “Yes, they’re my children. Mmmhmmm, all 5 of them.” Then, it comes. The real kicker (and there’s always a good chance that the next person who says this to me is going to be the kickee!), “You do know what causes it, don’t you?! Tee hee hee!”
Now, how do I adequately answer this inane question?
- “Yes. Yes I do know what causes it. Thanks for inquiring.”
- “Ummm, actually, just between you and me, I’ve never figured it out. Why? Can you tell me? Why does it happen? Why do I have so many, and is there a way to stop having more?!”
- “Yes I do. Would you like me to explain it to you?”
- “Well, what happens is this: when sexually aroused, a man’s penis engorges with blood causing an erection. When erect, a penis can enter a woman’s vagina, preferably lubricated. Then through a series of thrusts and parries, often accompanied by grunting, the man ejaculates semen, a viscose liquid, which carries sperm, into his female partner. At which point…..”
I’m tired of this. I’m really tired of it. Whether they were all planned or all accidents, whether they have five different fathers or one father is nobody’s business. I don’t want to hear the political argument that it’s someone’s business because they pay school tax or medical premiums which support my kids, or the social argument that the world is overpopulated and I’m being reckless. Really? Really? What can you say to that? Detail the list of things that we all pay taxes for? Point out who’ll be the tax payers when these nosy bastard are decrepit? Ask for a detailed account of what they own, what they drive, what they smoke, where they go and how they get there? Honestly, hypocrisy is not only sad, it’s rather funny. Poor little meddling pea-brains.
What is it about becoming a mother that makes you public property? It starts when we’re pregnant. As soon as a woman is showing, everyone, Everyone, starts to touch. Poking and prodding and patting, like you’re a bloody loaf of bread. With the touching, comes a sense of ownership that gives these interlopers the self-proclaimed permission to counsel, advise, and just plain boss.
Now, I can grasp that in this day and age 5 kids seems outrageous, maybe selfish, or maybe selfless, but unless we give each other the permission to invade each other’s personal lives and space about everything–“Oh, are you going to eat both those cheeseburgers? or “Gee, you have tiny little breasts,” pat, pat, pat or “Oh my God, you stink of B.O. do you know what deodorant is?” or “You do know you’re stupid, don’t you? Tee hee hee!“–people should just tuck their lower lips around their tiny little heads, and leave me, my kids, and my uncontrollable libido alone!
Or, they could be honest, and say what they’re really thinking, “What are you, crazy?” At least, then, we’d agree on something!