The problem was that this mothering thing that the women in my life seemed to do naturally was, and still is, inexplicably difficult for me and I was convinced everyone was judging me for it.
I felt like a failure on all fronts - from the tit-juicing to the whole ‘loving your baby’ thing. I was failing at something that was meant to be natural and basically, I turned into what happens when you actually go fuck yourself. And instead of talking about it like a normal person, I let it eat me alive which led to horrible, soul-decaying exhaustion. Thankfully, the nugget didn’t care that I didn’t care because he is a god damn hero and he never judged me. He did shit on me a few times though.
And you’ll note that I say that it has only recently come to my attention because I only just figured it out. And what really pisses me off is that apparently, while everyone was talking about how weird I’d gotten, nobody fucking bothered to tell me about it. They say ignorance is bliss, but in this case, I would have wanted someone to let me know that the sad, boring and detached little version life I was moving through was in fact, not real and certainly not forever.
Someone should have walked up to me, slapped an “out of order” sticker on my forehead and called it a day. It’s like I was trying to peel a potato with another potato and it was so hard and I just wanted to sleep-cry all the time and people were like “bitch needs to just use a peeler” but then they handed me another FUCKING POTATO – so thanks for nothing, assholes.
Anyway, after my brain performed a few permutations of emotions that I don’t understand, I got better (so I think, I mean no one told me for sure, but I guess I’m not sitting around peeling fucking potatoes anymore which is nice). Now the Nuggs is two and I’ve been in Canada a year. I met a friend here. She is smart and pretty and funny and I want to be around her all day. I wish she would let me live in between her labia – I would seal it shut behind me and be her little labia polly pocket.
But I digress.
I’ve now come to accept the way I do mothering. I do it strategically, not consistently.
Do I pick up the single shrivelled up Cheerio that has been just under the car seat since August 2014 that looks like a dead witch’s rectum? No. I leave it there because we are friends. That’s what happens when you invest time into a relationship.
Do I take the time to hide peas in each tiny shell-shaped pasta to make sure the Nuggs eats at least a tiny spec of vegetables? Fuck no, ain’t nobody got time for that. The Nuggs will eat what he is given end of story.
Do I read toddler books? Nope. That shit is inconsistent dickfuckery that isn’t worth my time. When I have five minutes to myself, you better believe that I is be sleeping.
Ooofff, this post is a lot more personal than I had anticipated. But in the words of the great Amy Schumer “Don’t feel sorry for me; I think I’m like, so pretty.”
And don’t get the wrong fucking idea here, just because I am okay with being a mother to the Nuggs does NOT mean I would be okay with another person living in my uterus. Don’t be fucking retarded. Just the thought of it makes my vagina slam shut like one of those steel trap doors in that show Lost
…thank God for that other hole ammaright?
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