The Boss of This Body

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Dear Womb,

You’ve noticed: three close friends are becoming parents for their second times.

How can I tell?  Because lately You, characteristically quiet and cooperative, have turned (in Your own still fairly quiet way), rebellious.

For someone who has claimed and wielded ownership over this body since I took Puberty to task for its lies and the self-doubt they induced, I recognize this passive resistance quite clearly.  It’s gotta stop.

Calm down.  I’m telling You the nicest way I know how–with clean food, okay some Soy Creamy, and resolve. But You need to chill.

Maybe you forgot: I run this body.

And it is I–not some pitiful circumstance–who gave up on the idea of You assuming traditional motherhood.  Your mourning is palpable and admittedly fair.  I get it.

Unlike the (sometimes) well meaning people we know who pass as parents, the pact we made–about bearing babies and all–was never about making a fashion statement; earning a trophy of achievement; keeping Him; completion of the holy trinity: husband, house, and kids; or “accepting” a “mistake” as a “blessing.”

While I don’t remember deciding these things deliberately, I did know that is not what being a parent ever meant to me.

Likewise, I can’t pinpoint the moment; no monumental epiphany or special event preceded my decision, to not to become a biological parent.  But alas, this is the crossroads at which we find ourselves.

I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t understand Your frustration.  We had plans.  Big-g-g plans and crazy names!

You probably remember when I told my girl in college that I would have 4 or 6 children–odd numbers meant there would always be an “odd man out.”  She wondered how would I ever travel as I’d planned.  When would I find the time or energy to write?  I told her that’s what strollers, partners, and belly straps were for.  Remember that?!

But the best laid plans of mice, men, and mothers-in-waiting often go awry.

Sometimes I still don’t have the energy to write and my passport is as dusty as my dance card. But I still run this body.

It prays and mourns and celebrates; I decorate, go gentle, or push it from its slumps.  Which brings me to this point: You, my friend, need to get out of this slump.  We give life, not sap it.  We. Give. Life.  (So get your shit together).

Love,
The Boss of This Body

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