The Resistance
You hear the horror stories but you rush in, head first. Foolhardy, blissfully ignorant, cocky even. But being a mother is as awfully visceral as any horror movie you ever saw. Today, an example. After a morning of doing everything for Bub, I realise I haven’t eaten a thing. I put her in her bouncinette (they have absurd names for all baby products. Somehow it gives them licence to charge you more for them. The Bug-A-Boo Frog is a pram that costs over a thousand dollars.)
As I start to prepare my food I hear her squeezing out a monstrous poo. Good, I think. It means the system’s working. I’ll detach myself from the disgusting reality of making brunch in the company of a defecator, eat and then deal with the mess. During my meal I hear her squeezing more. She seems very pleased with herself so I plough quickly through my pasta, shove a kiwi fruit down my gob and lift her up. Poo. Everywhere. All over her jumpsuit, all over the bouncinette (which is looking a little less perky now) and all over my hands. She smiles at me - enjoyed your meal, did you?
I realise I have to take her straight to the bath. A quick undress, into the water and… the bell rings. The dog goes ballistic, jumping at the door. I pull O out the bath and answer the door. The grocery delivery man, someone who may have been the subject of my porn fantasies in another lifetime, disengages the dog from his balls and dumps the food down. I assure him I’ll pay next time, it’s just impossible now. Sorry, he says, still clutching his gonads, you have to pay now.
Wet baby in hand, rabid dog at feet, I seek out the credit card. I rid myself of delivery boy and start drying bub, meticulously cleaning the brown morass off every fold. She’s starting to get grumpy. I clean her, dry her, cream her. I look for clean clothes. Everything seems to be in the wash. I manage to find a fresh jumpsuit at the bottom of the cupboard and change her into it. Ffffwwwoooo. Exhale. Sparkly as new. The phone rings. I pick her up. She vomits. All over herself, all over me, all over the new towel I’ve just put down. It’s a pumpkin and milky mix and it hammers. On the phone, the producer, LK, who has been offering me the most amazing work at the one time in my life I can't take it. Talking to LK through the vomit, I put O back down and start to clean the goo off everything. LK offers me an absurdly interesting job. I literally tell her to call me in a year. She seems put out. I go back to cleaning O. When finally finished, I ask her Would you like to excrete anything else? Wee in my ear perhaps? She laughs. Spit up my nose? A big giggle. Poo down my mouth? Hysteria. It becomes clear. She planned this all along.
Don’t be fooled by ‘doctors’, ‘scientists’ and ‘psychologists’ who tell you babies come into this world with a tabula rasa – a blank slate. They’re here with an agenda. Total annihilation of their mothers. Not with guns or bombs, but with the slow erosion of our sanity. Poo by poo, vomit by vomit, they’re taking us down. Anyone who wants to join the resistance, get in touch. Our first meeting starts Monday at noon. Or it may be one if she needs a sleep. Or maybe two ‘cos she might need to feed. Actually, I may be too exhausted on Monday, can we make it Tuesday…
As I start to prepare my food I hear her squeezing out a monstrous poo. Good, I think. It means the system’s working. I’ll detach myself from the disgusting reality of making brunch in the company of a defecator, eat and then deal with the mess. During my meal I hear her squeezing more. She seems very pleased with herself so I plough quickly through my pasta, shove a kiwi fruit down my gob and lift her up. Poo. Everywhere. All over her jumpsuit, all over the bouncinette (which is looking a little less perky now) and all over my hands. She smiles at me - enjoyed your meal, did you?
I realise I have to take her straight to the bath. A quick undress, into the water and… the bell rings. The dog goes ballistic, jumping at the door. I pull O out the bath and answer the door. The grocery delivery man, someone who may have been the subject of my porn fantasies in another lifetime, disengages the dog from his balls and dumps the food down. I assure him I’ll pay next time, it’s just impossible now. Sorry, he says, still clutching his gonads, you have to pay now.
Wet baby in hand, rabid dog at feet, I seek out the credit card. I rid myself of delivery boy and start drying bub, meticulously cleaning the brown morass off every fold. She’s starting to get grumpy. I clean her, dry her, cream her. I look for clean clothes. Everything seems to be in the wash. I manage to find a fresh jumpsuit at the bottom of the cupboard and change her into it. Ffffwwwoooo. Exhale. Sparkly as new. The phone rings. I pick her up. She vomits. All over herself, all over me, all over the new towel I’ve just put down. It’s a pumpkin and milky mix and it hammers. On the phone, the producer, LK, who has been offering me the most amazing work at the one time in my life I can't take it. Talking to LK through the vomit, I put O back down and start to clean the goo off everything. LK offers me an absurdly interesting job. I literally tell her to call me in a year. She seems put out. I go back to cleaning O. When finally finished, I ask her Would you like to excrete anything else? Wee in my ear perhaps? She laughs. Spit up my nose? A big giggle. Poo down my mouth? Hysteria. It becomes clear. She planned this all along.
Don’t be fooled by ‘doctors’, ‘scientists’ and ‘psychologists’ who tell you babies come into this world with a tabula rasa – a blank slate. They’re here with an agenda. Total annihilation of their mothers. Not with guns or bombs, but with the slow erosion of our sanity. Poo by poo, vomit by vomit, they’re taking us down. Anyone who wants to join the resistance, get in touch. Our first meeting starts Monday at noon. Or it may be one if she needs a sleep. Or maybe two ‘cos she might need to feed. Actually, I may be too exhausted on Monday, can we make it Tuesday…
posted by Yidchick at 2:19 pm
2 Comments:
This evening, sitting on the loo (lid closed) and chattering with Lottie (granddaughter, aged 3 1/2), she said, "Nana, aren't you glad I don't poo in the bath?" I looked at her and very sincerely nodded an affirmative.
Hold on O's Mummy, there will be a time in the not-too-distant future when you don't catch odd whiffs coming from your hands, clothes, hair, etc.
oh dear. I thought the singing mother was scary but the mother covered in poo and vomit trying to sign with credit card and juggle producer is infinitely worse.
Keep resisting!
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