Men patronize women by complimenting them on their ability to give birth. Give me a vagina and a uterus filled with a baby that’s ready to party, and I know I could push it out. It wouldn’t be pretty; I’d definitely cry, scream and call a nurse the c-word, but I’d pull it off.
Don’t get mad. I’m going somewhere with this.
What I could never do is be pregnant for more than a week. I know some women “love being pregnant,” but I’m pretty sure they’re full of shit. Real women, for whom pregnancy feels like a choppy ride on a rowboat, want those Gaia mothers to eat their tempeh wraps and shut it.
As an emotional witness to two pregnancies, I understand it’s basically like having the stomach flu for six months, followed by three months of being fat, wearing elastic, and rolling around for the remote while peeing a little in your pants. Sure, the end part seems great, and in fact many people in Mississippi live their entire lives that way, but it’s those first six months that make women worthy of awe and worship.
I remember my wife saying she’d been nauseous nonstop for two months. She would barf at least twice a day for 2 months. I incredulously asked, “So wait, you’ve been nauseous and debilitatingly tired for 60 days and even after you throw-up you don’t feel better? ” She replied, “Yes” in that “Shut up, or I’m gonna projectile on your face” kind of way.
Nausea is the worst feeling in existence. In my drinking days, if I got the spins, or felt even a little queasy, I would go make myself puke immediately. Problem solved.
I’ve had the stomach flu twice this year, and if Rush Limbaugh had appeared asking for my soul and a sensual massage in exchange for health, I would have whimpered, “Take it evil doughboy and slide on over next to me. Oh, and put my iPod on ‘zen mix.'”
Given my lack of tolerance for discomfort, I have little doubt that after 48 hours of being pregnant and nauseous, I would think, “Umm, I don’t want a baby this bad,” and throw myself down the stairs.
There must be a hormone that starts firing when a woman becomes pregnant. It makes her more tolerant of feeling like she’s in the way way back of a 1984 Plymouth station wagon with a gas leak driving through the hill towns of Tuscany. That hormone is the only thing separating us from extinction, and I want an injection of it next time I get dizzy.
If you liked this, buy my book!