When you become a mother you have two options. Accept that you will hate your husband forever after. Or divorce.
If you’re offended by strong language, references to bodily fluids, improper use of the term moist and the idea that a woman has to have children to ‘get it’ this book is not for you. Neither is parenthood, but I guess you already knew that, so skip the pro forma howling in protest and listen.
I’m not going to tell you to get excited about mums-only clubs or that you should get knocked up by the next available dick.
If you keep insisting that motherhood doesn’t equal womanhood. Guess, what? You’re right!
There is nothing glamorous about spending your days sans makeup and smelling of baby-vomit. There is nothing sexy about lacy lingerie, when a toddler has squeezed in between you and dear husband because he got chased into your bedroom by a scary dream.
It’s one of life’s biggest jokes that we’re never more a woman than when we give birth, yet we never feel less like one.
“But baby cuddles!” you may say in protest if you’re deluded into thinking that motherhood is still in your destiny. You just wait. Mothers don’t have time to dream. Mothers are up at three a.m. changing a diaper of curdy, yellow poop while baby projectile vomits all over the freshly laundered sheets. Cuddle that, smiley pants!
So, when I say that only mothers get it, I know what I’m talking about. I’m not discriminating against the maternally disinclined of this world. I’m stating a fact. A reality. My reality.
Motherhood sucks. It sucks the life right out of any healthy marriage.
If you don't believe me, ask your parents.
Are they still together? Condolences, you have lived the daily madness that is married life with kids. Are they divorced? I'll take my counselling fee now, thank you very much.
My point? Marriage is hard. Marriage with kids is near impossible. This from someone who prides herself on having both feet firmly planted on the commitment side of things.
Six years ago, I married my best friend and the love of my life. Today, there is no denying that most days the grass looks a lot greener on the other side, despite me shadow-living my cousin Natalie’s bitter divorce, her lengthy custody battle and regular updates on how difficult life is as a single mum.
The way I see it she’s pretty lucky. Not only does she have one contender less for the most obnoxious behaviour of the day. She also gets a lot more action in the passion department, if you know what I mean.
I may have someone to fix the leaky pipe in our bathroom, but she gets to call out the plumber and live the fantasy.
It's the age-old problem of wanting what you can't have and one of the reasons I haven't called it quits on my marriage. Yet.
The other: the little nugget in my belly and her big brother need their daddy.
The good news: over the last three years, since Jordan was born, Greg and I have formed a tenuous agreement. We may no longer be the lovey-dovey couple of times long past, neither are we at each other's throats on a daily basis.
Most days we share a house, a bed and a washing machine with admirable success. (My doing.) Occasionally we fuck each other's brains out. (Greg’s doing.)
Some people (Natalie) may think that sticking with my man ‘despite’ instead of ‘because’ is a big eff-you to female emancipation. I think it’s a small price to pay to spare my kids from the fucked up reality that are irreconcilable differences.
Because my children come first. Forever and always since the day I stopped being a daughter and became a Mummy! Exclamation mark included.
My name is Gisele Howard but my cousin calls me a doormat. My friends call me on Saturdays. Jennifer from third grade calls me a bitch.
The most succinctly comprehensive description of my life, however, you’ll find online where every mother(-to-be) timestamps their posts with the consistency of their cervical mucus and every father(-to-be) is a baby-wearing defender of attachment parenting.
In this world of obscure truths and unfiltered abbreviations I’m a scrunchy (half silky, half crunchy) SAHM (stay at home mum) with a LO (little one) on the way. DH (dear husband) is stoked, because US (ultrasound) at 143 DPO (days post ovulation) confirmed that we’re getting our perfect pigeon pair with DS (dear son) eagerly awaiting DD’s (dear daughter’s) debut. My breasts, have been leaking colostrum for the last two weeks—sorry, TMI (too much information)—and the fact that I had my bloody show for the last two days, should mean that DD (dear daughter) will be born before her actual DD (due date) and feeding from my DD’s (holy motherfucker, I have boobs) much earlier than expected.
If you got all of this, congratulations. You’re officially mummy-trapped. Hold on to your overextended stomach muscles and don’t forget to strap in for the ride. Shit is about to get real. Because the most important thing, the most critical piece of information that requires immediate attention:
“Greg, leave that pipe alone. I've sprung a leak!”
“Shit, another one? Where?”
WTF is *bump*?