We started to “bud” in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find that
anything that came in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurt so bad it
brought us to tears. So came the ridiculously uncomfortable training bra
contraption that the boys in school would snap until we had calluses on our
backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along with those
budding boobs, we bloated, we cramped, we got the hormone crankies, and had to
wear little mattresses between our legs or insert tubular, packed cotton rods in
places we didn’t even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage was having sex for the first time which was
about as much fun as having a ramrod push your uterus through your nostrils (IF
he did it right and didn’t end up with his little cart before his horse),
leaving us to wonder what all the fuss was about.
Then it was off to Motherhood where we learned to live on dry crackers and water
for a few months so we didn’t spend the entire day leaning over Brother John.
Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learned to live with
the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking our innards night and day
making us wonder if we were preparing to have Rosemary’s Baby. Our once-flat
bellies looked like we swallowed a whole watermelon and we peed our pants every
time we sneezed.
When the big moment arrived, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions invariably
burst right in the middle of the mall and we had to waddle, with our big cartoon
feet, moaning in pain all the way to the ER.
Then it was huff-and-puff-and-beg-to-die while the OB says, “Please stop
screaming, Mrs. Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one more good push” (more
like 10), warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the %$#*@*#!*
hubby and doctor square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling,
mushroom-headed 10 pound bowling ball through a keyhole.
After that, it was time to raise those angels - only to find that when all that
“cute” wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into walking, jabbering,
wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop machines.
Then come their “Teen Years.” Need I say more?
When the kids are almost grown, we women hit our voracious sexual prime in our
early 40’s - while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th birthday.
So we progress into the grand finale: “The Menopause,” the Grandmother of all
womanhood. It’s either take HRT and chance cancer in those now seasoned “buds”
or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or sweat like a hog in July, wash your
sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off anything that moves.
And you still wonder WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men? Men get off so
easy, INCLUDING the icing on life’s cake - being able to pee in the woods
without soaking their socks.
So, while I love being a woman, “Womanhood” would make the Great Gandhi a tad
crabby.
You think women are the “weaker sex?” Yeah right.
Bite me.
see also
Mother & Stress Sections
Motherhood
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Church Dinner |
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 Family Hands |
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