Mother fracker. That’s the kind of thing you might hear come out of my mouth lately as I try not to corrupt my young son. The other day he dropped a toy on the ground and said, “Oh shit.” Not that I am particularly vulgar in front of him, but the morning before that, in the midst of unpacking some books in the basement, I did drop a huge load of them on my foot (causing a huge bruise and bump) and say, “shit” out loud and then all kinds of other things under my breath. He was a floor away, but …
So that’s what I said when I got another email announcing a pregnancy, “Mother Fracker.” This one a friend of mine who had a baby a month after Baby Man was born. Ergh. Their choices have nothing to do with us. But I feel so…behind. Ridiculous, I know, because Baby Man is enough. He’s fun and energetic, and I think to myself, “If I were pregnant now, I could not spend the day at the zoo with him!”And I never want to give that up.
But damn it, other mothers can. I see plenty of pregnant women marching around the zoo with multiple young ones circling around them.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get over having hated pregnancy.