An open letter to my unborn children
I just want to take a moment, here at 28 years of age, well before the conception of your conception even begins to occur, to drop on you the first of what I’m sure will be thousands of guilt trips. And even this early, it’s been a long time coming.
I will begin by saying: for you and only you—not my parents, not my ancestors, not your cousins or future countrymen—do I endure. YOU. JUST YOU are the beneficiary of my plight. So goddammit, you betta reckinize.
This past week I accepted two roommates into my space. With them came 6 rolls of toilet paper. I just tore into #3 of 6. For you. You know why? Because my period, which is your direct predecessor, will not go away. Even though it began a good 5 days ago, it’s still around. I’m using twice as much toilet paper as my two female roommates COMBINED, because not only am I dropping out all kinds of uterine lining each pee, but the stomach cramps caused by the period send off false poo alarms, which sit me down on the toilet probably 3 times more than usual.
But honestly, my precious ones, TP is the last of my worries. How about the near-hemorrhoidal state of my asshole, both because of the water retention and the stressed-out coffee dependence that this uterus-renewing causes every month? How about the ingrown pubic hair that turns into a tumor right before I bleed? And the cramps? Holy shit, the cramps. Once I fainted. Often I feel like puking. One time I collapsed from the cramping. Wriiiithing in pain, sweating: this is me every first couple days of my period. The amount of ibuprofen I’ve sucked down on account of you twerps, I’ll probably wind up with liver cancer. But as any (pre-)mother would, I suffer. For you.
Take it back a couple of days, into the premenstrual phase, and I’m ready to shoot myself. This past month, I could literally be quoted saying, “I’m bored… Oh, with life,” only to temper it for my friends’ sake with “not bored like Sylvia Plath bored… just bored.” (Yes, I know Plath had some matronly issues, which is a bit ironic, but take it as a suicide reference.) Of course, I wasn’t serious; I want to keep pressing on because I’ve got this vision of some quaint family life ahead of me. So... tears. Insecurity. Bitterness. Anger. Stress. For a week or so. Peering over the edge, but just teetering. Because? Because I can feel myself getting fatter and my boobs getting sore and heavy and my gums swelling, and I know what’s coming to relieve it all: my fertility bomb.
Yeah, so I’m complaining about something all women go through, and for millennia they’ve all survived their monthly crisis and never had much of a problem. Well, here’s what I say. Fuck that. I’m gonna complain to my heart’s content. You know why? Because once I pop you brats out, I’m gonna (1) be dealing with pain far worse than even my debilitating cramps and (2) be so overjoyed and grateful and disgustingly bursting with love that I’ll completely forget to remind you that for 18 years and counting, you have caused me to hate 3 out of every 4 weeks of my life (PMS=2 wks easily).
We won’t even go into the whole weeding-out process to find your father. That I’ll tell you in person.