When I think MOTHERHOOD, I think of the scene in Look Who’s Talking when Kirsty Alley tells John Travolta that giving birth is like “squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of an opening the size of a lemon”. I know that the delivery process is not really what motherhood is about but I just can’t seem to get past it. It scares the living shit out of me! It’s gooey and bloody and involves enemas, forceps, ripping, tearing and episiotomies – or so I have heard. Gross! I am also not too keen on stretching the crap out of my vag. I like my vag, I don’t want to mangle her. Scar tissue and a gaping hole can’t do much for one’s sex life. I like sex – I don’t want it to be over. I don’t want to be fat and stretch marked. I am not sure if, as a woman, there is supposed to come a point when I will feel okay with ruining my body and becoming an eternal bulging blob. Or am I just supposed to take the plunge despite my reservations. I envy the old fashioned way of popping ’em out at thirteen. The younger one is, the better the recovery of body and vag. Then there is the whole breast-feeding thing. I have no boobs as it is and the thought of something sucking on the meagre portion of the breast allocation that is my allotment in life, is traumatic to say the least. Once upon a time my friend had a ‘preparation for being a mom’ book and once upon a time I looked inside this book. And once upon a time I saw a picture of a baby practically deep-throating a nipple. I don’t want my nipple to be distorted into a piece of spaghetti. The moral of the story is: purchase baby books without pictures. Thankfully there is a solution to all of the above is a) caesarean b) adoption c) just don’t have children.
Caesarean is a definite option, although my body will take longer to recover – or so I have heard. At least my vag will remain intact and the horror of an episiotomy will be avoided. With regards to b) and c), despite all of the above mentioned, I do want to have children (my own children) and my husband will be the coolest Dad in the whole world. The problem is that I am still waiting for my maternal instincts to kick in. The closer I get to the big 3 0, the more I think that this is just not going to happen. I held a really cool baby the other day, and I am so not the baby-holding type. It…He… was kind of thrust into my hands by a friend who was attending to his four-year-old and I couldn’t refuse. He is a rather large and really cute nine-month-old who placidly parked off in my lap, didn’t cry and gently chatted away to himself whilst playing with his toy giraffe. It was probably at this point that I felt a hint of maternal instinct for the first time in my 26 years. Conclusion: my maternal instinct is inspired by placid babies. Yes, I am well aware that all the moms out there are laughing out loud. The chances of me having a placid baby are slim to none in any case. The mix of Irish (me)/Italian (husband) genes and the strain of psychosis that runs in my family (uncle+brother) is pretty much setting me up for failure.
Final conclusion: HERE’S TO BITING THE BULLET.