I cry watching the last fifteen minutes of Sixteen & Pregnant, without fail. If I ever have incredibly attractive, beautiful, dark-haired children, it is going to be a long nine months. Long. It's probably not going to be some Father of the Bride II shit, where I'm walking around the house with a gay Martin Short and BD Wong and I'm strutting around with Annie Hall (because she's my simultaneously pregnant mom) in vaguely coordinating outfits and Steve Martin is hooking us up with ice and what not. Nay. It will probably not be like that.
I see pregnancy and birth and parenting the same way I saw paying bills, managing a bank account, or applying for college when I was, like, 12. It seem complicated and foreign and hard. Like what are all these terms? What does it all mean? Seems like a lot of work. Much like paying bills, I'm sure it's one of those things you pick up naturally. It is a beautiful thing that I am in no way prepared to figure out. Much like synchronized swimming, playing the harp, or Sodoku (jk Sodoku is not beautiful but a Sodoku puzzle is another thing I am not prepared to ever figure out, probably because Sodoku is for dillweeds).
Congrats to all the new parents this week, especially the mommies. Solidarity, women. I am somewhat of a poor [wo]man's feminist and having a baby is feminist as shit. Sorry, men (excluding you, Arnold and you, Spanish speaking man who had a baby last year - btw, Arnold - do you want to come over tomorrow and rent James Cameron's new release, ABADAH?) - your d-hole isn't shooting souls out of it. That's coming from the womb, baby. You made a human being inside of you, moms. Somewhere between unprotected sex and birth, you implanted a soul and created life into a batch of cells and made it a human. Your body made life. This is something I cannot wrap my head around. You brought a human being into the world with your body. Vaginas are magic.
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