If you were present on the outside of my body, you would see I’m giving you the infamous Costanza-Newman stare. What’s that, you ask? Who’s Costanza?
Well, that’s problem number one.
So, Uterus. Do you mind if I call you Utey? Or Ute? Or simply U? Because every time I type Uterus it feels like I’m typing a combination of Jupiter and Uranus and I have the irrepressible urge to hit spell check and frankly, I’m not getting any writing done. Let’s settle on U, shall we? ‘Kay? Thanks.
So U. We’ve been through a lot. Puberty. The utter humiliation of that first doctor’s visit, the one who looked uncannily like Joey Buttafuoco. The college years, many of which, I’ll admit, I do not remember. While we’re on the subject, I should add how much I appreciate your patience with the ills I’ve done my body. Because (see above). If you could pass that on to the liver, I’d be much obliged.
Oh sure, we’ve been at cross-purposes before. I’m not sure in which former life I pissed you off, but I’m certain whatever I did was of Dante-esque proportion, based on your behavior the first three days of my every period. Narcotics have no power over you. And while we’re being honest, let me admit: I might hate you for it, but I admire you, too. You remind me that whatever I may sometimes think, my husband could not bear you. It takes a woman to do a woman’s job.
While we’re on the topic of things I appreciate about you, let’s talk about all the jackasses who assumed we would fail out of engineering, solely based on your existence, and then, when that didn’t happen, fail as an engineer. Did you also think it was funny, once they realized we were smarter and more successful than they were, how they wanted to get up close and personal with both of us? If we had a superhero name, we would be the JackAssKickers. Also, we would have leopard print capes and three inch heels.
Are you getting that I’m trying to butter you up? Little gets past you, U. Let’s talk about your more recent accomplishments, like the nurturing of my small person. While your unwillingness to give him up was disconcerting, at best – was three hours of pushing really necessary? – I can’t say I don’t understand. I mean, you were totally right. He is awesome.
But you know what, U? We need to talk. Because you and I once again find ourselves at odds. I get that you’re not solely responsible for my distress. There are ovaries, and fallopian tubes, and, hell, somebody else’s reproductive organs involved, too. But you’re sort of the boss down there. So:
You may have noticed I’m trying to get knocked up. Sure, I know you’re busy shedding and rebuilding and all that miracle of life crap. But for real, yo: mama’s working here. I mean, I wore heels three times last month. And perhaps you remember from such episodes as Ten Months of Nurturing a Fetus and Three Hours of Insane Pushing, I have a toddler. It’s not like I have a lot of, you know, bandwidth. So I get it. If it’s not the right time to have a baby, no problem. But would you mind doing me a solid? If, in fact, you aren’t going to get all warm and nurture-y and fourteen-thousand times your size, could you please try to be, oh, I don’t know… timely about it? I’ve mentioned that 48 hours is late for us. So five days late? Five days late means I’m researching the accuracy of First Response pregnancy tests. Five days late means I’m facing uncontrollable PMS and the urge to eat everything chocolate, fried or served with ranch (and sometimes all three together) in sight, and yet somehow still wondering if these are signs of pregnancy and let’s be honest, U, none of that is particularly good for our mental health, our marriage or the safety of those around us.
You see, U, I can take the cramping. I can face the humiliation of a freezing doctor’s office and gowns that gape in the back. I can handle the demeaning comments about my ability to drive or resolve complex mathematical equations or drill a hole five miles into the ground. But the monthly betrayal of not doing exactly what I want you to, when I want you to, how I want you to? Followed by jacking up my hopes just this much and then crushing them? That’s getting harder to accept. And doing it while I’m without alcohol? Well, now you’re just plain being bitchy.
So let’s stick with timely, shall we? ‘Kay?
Thanks, love. Smooches and all -S