**How do you solve a problem like Maria? You don't, you just don't. This woman has a raw talent for the written word that leaves me as breathless as her tee-shirts and I'm honoured to call myself a fan and a friend. There's no solving Maria - the best thing to do is just to sit back and enjoy the incomparable Immoral Matriarch in all her brilliant, profane glory.***
Kelly says fack.
I say fuck.
I thought we should just get that out of the way now. If you think your eyeballs will dissolve in your skull from seeing expletives scattered about in a blog post you may want to click away until tomorrow's guest arrives. My fingertips have Tourette's. Ok. Moving on!
I'm Maria. I'm sure K gave me a fabulous introduction [she'd better have: *shakes fist*] but just in case she didn't, that's who I am. I blog at Immoral Matriarch. Not ImmorTal, immoral. I am very aware that I could drop dead at any moment, thank you. Cross your fingers that I don't because I had a dream last night that Joe Biden went on a crazy rampage and murdered me in front of the Obama family and thousands of supporters at a rally because I whispered 'Biden's hair looks like a fluffy cloud helmet' to my friend and he heard me with his super sonic ears. Wha'? Stop laughing. Stop. It's not funny. Stop! You're an ass dude, seriously. Sheesh.
Alright - the guest post:Kelly is a lucky woman. She has a son. She has adorable little Graham who is very ungrateful and makes sure he never leaves home without his penis. Me? I'm not lucky. I have two beautiful daughters. I wanted sons. I am not lucky.
My girls are the most awesome, cute, spectacular, original, perfect children ever. I would post a picture, but that would just make you so jealous that you'd stuff your own children down the quick drop box at Blockbuster and I wouldn't want squished kiddies amongst returned DVDs on my conscious. I am happy, but I am not lucky.
I was meant to have sons. Damnitt. When I was pregnant with The Bella, my oldest, I just knew she was a boy. There was not a doubt in my mind that I carried a son. Christian Pierce was to be his name. I was going to let his hair grow hippyishly long and dress him in black tees and tiny shelltoes. I didn't even go in the girls section on my baby shopping expeditions. There was no need. I had a tiny little penis in my belly, and I knew it.
I walked into my 18 week ultrasound ready to see him. Ready to see it. And I saw him. He was perfect, with little arms and legs moving, and he was sucking his thumb! It was amazing. The first time I'd felt connected to my baby. That I realized it was my baby.
But then, just as I realized this realization, the doctor had the nerve to tell me it was a girl.
"No." I said.
"I've been doing this for 20 years and I've never been wrong yet. That's a little girl." he replied.
"You're wrong. Look again." I snapped.
"There -" he said, pointing to a little fuzzy gray patch on the screen. "If there was something there, I'd see it. And I don't. So it's a girl."
I didn't answer. I was silent. I was fucking pissed. I fought back tears. The doctor left, awkwardly, and the nurse handed me paper towels to clean the ultrasound jelly off of my stomach with. I threw them to the ground in the most dramatic fashion and stormed out, tears flowing steadily. My husband shuffled along behind me, stopping at the checkout desk to confirm my next appointment.
I went to the car and yanked on the locked door handle. I yanked some more. I yanked and flailed and screamed and kicked the car, taking out all my aggression on that stupid fucking car and that stupid fucking lock and it's stupid fucking nerve to not open for me - it's master, it's owner, the person that could run it into a tree if it didn't cooperate. And I glared at my stupid fucking husband walking towards me as he took his sweet time pressing the unlock button on the keychain.
"Unlock the stupid fucking door!" I screamed.
And he did. "I'm sorry," he said as we sat down. He put his hand on my leg. "I guess I just make girls."
I ignored him and fought back the urge to say 'I guess so, you stupid fucking pansy man'. We got home, and I ran into the closet. I cried. He came in and hugged me, and let me cry on his shoulder. I can't tell you why it hurt me so badly, but it did. I did not want a girl. I would now go so far as to say that at that point, I did not want a baby at all if it wasn't a boy.
Of course that changed. I love my daughter. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her little 3D ultrasound face.
When it was time to find out what my second was, I didn't have my hopes up. In the year and a 1/2 of my firstborn's life I'd discovered that having a little girl wasn't so bad. It was actually pretty fun. So when they said it was a girl, I didn't have one little tingle of pain or sadness. It was fine. Who cared?
Of course that was also the point I made the decision to have a tubal ligation performed so there must have been some disappointment. It was evident that the man only shot girls. No more girls. Jesus no more girls.
I still want a son. I'll never have one. So I wasn't lucky. I still see little boys in the mall and at the park and wish I'd had one. A mama's boy. A little man that I could teach to have insane ideals and paint for him the picture of a perfect woman that he could never attain and thus he would never leave me fully, and his wife would hate that she could never be what he subconsciously wanted in a wife: me.
But I was given what I've got and I couldn't ask for anything better. I get the urge to kidnap random little boys, or maybe just trade out one of my own kids and see if the other parent notices. I frequently see a woman in Target with 4 beautiful, well behaved, boys and wonder if I could just slip one of them in my big red cart without her noticing and run my ass out the door before I could be stopped.
But I don't. I fight these criminal urges. I love raising daughters, and I can't wait to see the women they become. It's been fun so far, and I'm hoping it stays that way. Of course during the teenage years I'm screwed if they're fuck ups. If either of them comes home with an "I'm pregnant, mom." I'll sooooooooo envy the mother of the no-good-too-young-couldn't-keep-it-in-his-pants-twatface that impregnated my daughter.
All that mom will have to hear is "I got somebody pregnant, mom." That'd be soooo much more preferable.
[I couldn't help but post the picture. If you're going to return your children now, at least do it via NetFlix. They have better customer service.]