Motherhood

In the world of motherhood, there are three and a half types of women. The first is much like my sister Carrie, who at the age of twenty married the love of her life and started a beautiful, little American family shortly after. Before children this woman was known for her vanity (I say this out of jealousy)… her plethora of cute little shoes, a small carry-on sized suitcase full of lip gloss, and her classic statement disguised as a question, “Don’t I look cute?” But now she has advanced to a higher level on my gauge of jealous love-hate, because she is not only the tall, skinny, blond sister, but the modern, trendy reflection of Carol Brady. If all women could reach this level of motherly perfection it would solve the plaguing problems of illiteracy, screaming child-brats in public places, middle school bullies, global warming, and cocaine smuggling.

One evening I was attempting to soak in the aura of Carrie’s Carolness by having her cut my hair and make me look pretty. After discussing my own personal nerd goals of studying Arabic and the Middle East, we started talking about kids. Now, I am the second type of woman that understands her motherly inadequacies and questions her ability to: A) raise a child suitable for non-familial human interaction. B) Get fat for nine months and then willingly push something that large out of my vagina. C) Give up all my own personal fun and remain selfless for eighteen years…or more! Nope. Not really my thing. So, this particular hair cutting event led to some rather diverse conversations. It all started when Carrie asked Jared, her husband, to bathe the kids. In my mind I thought, “How does Carrie know it is bath time?” So I asked.

“What time to do they get a bath?”
“Oh, right before bed time. It mellows them out and lets them know it is almost time to sleep.”
“How often do they get a bath?”
“A lot in the summer.”
“Oh. How often in the winter?”
“Every other day, so that their skin doesn’t dry out too much.”
“What if it’s a newborn?”
“If it is a newborn it will depend on the newborn and if they have a diaper explosion.”
“Oh.”
I seem satisfied, but I stopped only because she seemed annoyed. When is a newborn no longer considered “new”? What sort of mile stone must they reach to be just a “baby”? If your baby is a male, does he ever stop being a “baby”?
It was probably during this conversation when Bella, the “newborn” or “baby”, was being fed large doses of blueberries. Which I learned later would result in one of these so called diaper explosions- only I was informed that this one was purple and occurred at 4 o’clock in the morning. In my opinion, they ought to film that experience in sex ed. It may have more of a lasting affect than clips of gonorrhea and pubic crabs.

When I was a teacher in a rural area of South Carolina, sex education to seventh graders was taught in my room during my planning period. Though I wasn’t involved in the educational aspect of this program, I naively remained in the room, thinking they couldn’t possibly say something I didn’t already know, while my students were taught the importance of abstinence… just a little too late. “This is a picture of syphilis.” And with each graphic photo a response,
“Girl, I seen dat before!”
“Ain’t yo mama got dat?!”
“Daaang. Dat sheet itchy, dog.”
After a round of statements, the girls are asked if they have questions. They are full of “questions”.
“I ain’t know no one who ain’t had sex. You ain’t married, you had sex Ms. Laska?” (Uh, I’m married) “Oh, girl!!!”
“My mama buy her own churn condoms. Dat bad?” (Condoms are not discussed within the school district)
“You mean, I gotta wait till I married? I’s told you can practice with a cousin, so you be good at it.”
At this point I was severely mortified, the color of lip stick red, and hiding behind my computer screen.

Which brings me to the third type of woman. The one that acts like me, but thinks she is like Carrie… Meaning, they have children when really they should take at least 15 credits on motherhood as part of their freshmen orientation… or as a prom entrance exam… or perhaps before middle school. This is the parent that when called in to a parent-teacher conference walked in to school in her very own tight, hot pink screen tee with “Twin Peaks” plastered across her chest and announces to the world that, “I’m ma babies best friend. She make her own decisions. She fail, she gonna have ta deal wit dat.” and makes everyone else tilt their heads and wonder, “which one is the parent?”

Oh, the half woman, her twelve year old, is sitting right next to her smirking.