Breathtaking

I don’t know if it’s the hormones or my unfulfilled desperation for a footrub, but I’m pretty sick of being stuck on this planet and either way I’m blaming my pregnancy.

Now, don’t you bite my head off about being a terrible mother; there is not a single thing I hate about being a parent, I just despise being pregnant. It’s not just the effects it’s had on my social life, (let alone that distant memory of something I think I’d called a “sex life” in my past.) It isn’t even the fact that I’d worked so hard on my abs, which have been invaded, just like the rest of my body, and pregnancy is finding a way to maraud my every physical inch and leave me a giant sweaty whale. No, it’s the space- wasting human beings I am forced to share this planet with. This time the problem isn’t even me! It’s them!

Sometimes I wish there was a way to capture all the air in the universe and store it in bottles. The stupider and nastier you are, the less bottles of air you are allowed per day. You run out of oxygen? Oh well, tough luck. Maybe you’ll think twice in the next life about making ignorant, offensive comments to people who are simply trying to get on with their own peaceful lives without you in them! You want to start an argument? Fine! But that’ll cost you two bottles. Get the gist?

What really grinds my gears are people who feel the right, or the unexplainable need to tell other people where they are going wrong as parents. Apparently whether or not they themselves have ever had children, or whether or not they even know the other person at all, is totally irrelevant and does not in any way take away that self- proclaimed authority to an opinion which was never asked for. Minus five bottles of air, thank you.

My first issue is the belly- rub thing. Just don’t do it, okay? There’s no need. Really. Yes, that is my tummy. Guess what! You have one too! Mine just happens to be home to my unborn child right now, so if you’d like to remove your grubby, sweaty hand that’s migrating alarmingly closer towards my upper- pussy region, I’d appreciate that. Seriously though. You don’t think you’d find it strange if I started rubbing your husband’s bald head and making squealing noises because there’s a “widdle bwain in there!”? Back up, lady, before I take another six bottles of air you don’t deserve.

Secondly, yes, I am blatantly aware of the baby- making process. I wear it every day like a blinking neon sign underneath my shirt; “Yes, I had a penis in my vagina without protection” for all to see. I don’t need your own special rendition of the birds and the bees story. And please, just try using your own brain, (that’s right; you have one of those too!) before asking me how I got pregnant, as if the way I did it was totally different to how every other human being has ever done it. I’m pretty sure if I’d discovered some revolutionary way to create babies totally asexually the world would know about it by now. For those of you pitiful kids who really don’t know, you probably don’t yet have the mental capacity to be reading my blog, (two bottles of air gone,) and if you really must know, it takes a sperm and an egg to create a baby. Not a mother and father, though this is the common misconception amongst the uneducated.

Let me explain. I’ve always seen “mother” and “father” as sacred titles which must be earnt. And I’m sorry, but I really feel like you have to do a little more than just have sexual intercourse resulting in two pink lines to call yourself a mother or father. It’s an accomplishment, yes. But not enough to earn that title. So no, in my opinion, my child does not technically have a father. Of course somewhere in there are someone else’s genes, I’m not stupid. Talk to me again like I am and I’ll be taking eight bottles of air off you! What’s that? You can’t breathe? Poor thing.

And lastly, I’d like to point out that my age is a number. It is merely an indication of the amount of years I’ve had to spend trapped on earth with you imbeciles. It is not a measurement of my maturity or a display of my capabilities as a parent. If there is anything you should be judging a parent by, it is definitely not their age. And even then, you’re better off minding your own business. Watch those air bottles.

13 or 30, 20 or 42; there is no “right age” for having a child. There is, I believe, a right time. And that is whenever your child decides to come to you. I like to think that is why I have babies who are in heaven- it just wasn’t their time. It had nothing to do with me as a parent, and it definitely had nothing to do with my age. Age and maturity are two very separate things, which are also very important to differentiate. I have seen mothers a lot older than myself who I felt did not deserve the children they were blessed with because of the way those kids were neglected and mistreated. I have seen the same in younger mothers. I have also seen some of the best parenting come from people who aren’t yet old enough to legally drink, and I’ve also seen older parents who do an amazing job. At the end of the day, it’s not your place to judge someone as a parent based on how old or young they are. If there is love, let it be. If there’s not, start snatching bottles of air, coz every child deserves to be loved by parents whose desire to love them matches their desire to breathe.

Give every mother and father a chance before judging them. Especially when you have not walked in their shoes. After all, they have earnt those titles. And not just by making a life; that’s the easy part. But by creating one.

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