I was meandering about the intertubes, now that I’ve got them back. Specifically, I was blog-hopping in Infertility Land, and I am forced to the conclusion that I am a bit weird for an infertile woman. Oh, fuck it, I’m a bit weird for everything. But we’re not discussing everything. Are we?
- I don’t actually mind Mother’s Day/Mothering Sunday/Whatever The Heck You Call It. Well, I mind it personally, as I want a baby, haven’t got one, all those miscarriages, yada yada, face being rubbed in it, wounds liberally salted, etc.. But I don’t mind the fact it exists at all. I think it’s rather nice that there’s a day to give your Mum a card and thank her for letting you wreck her pelvic floor/ability to sleep through the night/tolerance for high-pitched noises. I also think it’s amusing that if you and your mother Do Not Get On, you get a day to Officially Ignore her on, just to make that point all pointy. If I get to be someone’s female parent, I will be really quite pissy if I don’t get a wee scrap of paper covered in glitter and stick figures with improbable hair on that day (I do think getting your partner to buy you an expensive present ‘on your child’s behalf’ once said child is over 3 is cheating. Sorry, but I do. Same goes for Father’s Day. You will take the scribbly glitter and you will like it. Why else were fridge magnets invented? There. I have been judgy. Bring on the hate).
- I like seeing small kids. I am that nice lady who will wave and make faces at your grouchy toddler in the supermarket queue. I am that kind commuter who will help you carry the push-chair up or down the stairs. I am that friendly passer-by who will corral your five-year-old before he sprints out into the road under the wheels of a passing bus. I will smile when you bring your excited kids into the café where I was having a quiet cappucino. I just like small kids. Sorry, but I do. (Maybe not in the ACU or RM clinic’s waiting rooms, though).
- Pregnant bellies do, I admit, make me wince, and feel wistful and sorry for my self, but I also think pregnant women are the most beautiful humans on this earth. Except the one I regularly see smoking outside the office. She is an ugly shrivelled little soulless wimp with a mouth like a cat’s arse. I judged again. You’re welcome.
- I have a great deal of sympathy for women with morning sickness, back-ache, varicose veins and heartburn, for people being kept awake all-night by shrieky small people, for people making fishfingers for the ninth night in a row because Small Precious won’t eat anything else. If someone bitches to me about noisy anxsty teens or little princesses who break things in their tantrums, I agree, it’s distressing. I don’t think they should suck it up and be grateful. And if I ever get pregnant again, let alone get lucky and end up with a shrieky picky noisy anxsty stormy house-destroyer of my own, I too will want the right to bitch about it all. Ungratefully. Because it’s worth bitching about, even when I and you and everyone knows it’s damn well worth it.
- However, I too really, really loathe the sight of most baby clothes, toys, and blankies. But not because of the darling little heart-breaking cute I am shut out from, oh no. I shudder with distress because most baby-things are repulsive, shoddily-made, gender-stereotyped, nylon-heavy, poorly-stitched, expensive, lurid and expensive pieces of shit, that’s why. I’m trying to buy someone I care about a gift here, people. Which is why I invariably end up giving new parents hand-cream, baby-blues bath-oil, body lotion, and booze.
- I confess to shouting ‘I want one!’ at the telly whenever a particularly cute child appears, even if said child is advertising baked beans or something. I don’t think that’s weird at all.