Happy Mother’s Day, moms! (And a special shout-out to mine, thanks for all the labor pre- and post-birth.) I feel the need to thank you all: You’re creating future doctors, scientists, writers, philosophers, teachers, police, firefighters, politicians who may actually do their jobs and hooligans like the ones who tagged my neighborhood last week and stole four tires from an SUV down the street, leaving it up on concrete blocks.
This day got me thinking about why I’ve never felt the maternal pull. Sure, my body was engineered to create, incubate and birth life, and I won’t lie: I’ve felt the twinge here and there. But whenever I’m feeling this way, I scamper to the nearest Walmart for a reality check. Screaming kids and frustrated, expletive-wielding moms fill the aisles. All it takes is about five minutes and my ovaries have shriveled up like grapes morphing into raisins on a sunny day
However, my overall apathy toward being a mom is not the only reason for my decision. I have several more specific reasons:
#1: I value my vagina.
The definition of episiotomy gives me night terrors. I don’t have a lot of other things going for me physically: I need to lose weight, I’m one large freckle, and if I can find the inventor of a truly effective under-eye-bag-eliminating cream I will lobby for his/her Nobel Prize nomination. My vagina is one of my best features: It is unsullied, uncut. It has never witnessed (and played a vital role in) pushing a bowling ball-sized baby through a very small space. I’d like to keep it that way.