The Curse of Genetics

The desire to procreate, in some, is so strong that it creates a sort of tunnel vision in the afflicted. One can’t see beyond trying to make a baby, and they never stop to think about what it will really be like once said baby has in fact, arrived.

I don’t mean to demean the whole carrying-on-the-family thing. Hey, I’m as guilty as the rest of people that once had a dream, and in getting that dream, got a whole lot more.

All I ever wanted to be was a mother. In high school I had things I preferred to study, side-passions that I took interest in, but as for what I wanted to “do” with my life, well, I only had one goal: Motherhood.

When I hit college, my career-track never wavered. I’ve dropped out of college three times, and I still have almost a year left of college if I am to ever get that danged illusive degree. But, I digress.

I just had to become pregnant, incubate a little being for nine months, and be the best darned mommy that ever existed in the course of the entire world. I would be nurturing and patient, gentle and soft-spoken. I not only got my wish, I got twice—I found out I was pregnant again just a few sleep deprived months after my first son was born.

Motherhood has turned out to be nothing like I imagined or hoped and everything that I didn’t realize I had asked for. I’m ashamed to admit, that I really didn’t think this whole motherhood thing through. I like my quiet time. I need my privacy. I want hours on end to be creative and introspective. And now that I have two children under the age of 6, I have none of the things that I want or need to maintain my true self or my sanity.

Now, my idea of quiet time is reading a book so engrossing that I somehow manage to tune out the circus of creatures running amok in the living room. Now, I receive privacy almost never, and especially if the quest for privacy involves anything to do with nudity or bathroom tasks. It seems that I went to sleep in a typical suburban house and woke up one morning in a hippie commune.

And now, this long-term reality has collided with what I once expected of motherhood, and I’m wondering why in the hell I didn’t think this whole motherhood thing through at least a little bit.

I blame it all on the hormones and their apparent conspirator, genetics. You see, it is in the very nature of our species to procreate. It is in our best interest to pass our genes along, because if we don’t, the human race could die out.

Maybe that’s what happened to the dinosaurs. One gigantic green mother turned to the other females munching on broad tropical leaves and said “I can’t believe I thought I wanted this” nodding to her five-hundred-pound darling dangling by sharp teeth from her ample backside. And another turned to her and said, “You are so right! So what if Junior fell in the tar pit last week! When Herman comes to me with sweet-talk and Sangria, I’m just gonna tell him that I’m done having tail-biters. He’ll have to go find another womb to curse!”

So it has to be, because no other explanation would suffice, that my genes and my hormones blinded me, lulled me into the motherhood fog, and completely shut down all sense of rationality and reason that I had. No normal person, if they really knew what the next decades of their lives were to be like, would willingly walk into that dank, dark abyss.

And do you want to know the crazy part? I’m feeling the lull of the fog again, rolling deep and opaque around me, shielding me from the shrieks of babes and the hiding the mountain of dirty laundry. My genetics and hormones are teaming up against me again. Dear God, I want another one!

How can I fight it? Even if I could find the words to plead my case, they wouldn’t hold any weight against the survival of the species. My biology has spoken loud and clear, and it always has the last word. Better to just make nice and ride on through it, with the hopes that nature will be kind to me…

Thank God for genes and hormones. Without them, I wouldn’t exist to curse the condemned play-room, or scrub spaghetti off of my brand new suede couch. And I wouldn’t have a son who runs to me with another one of his oddly insightful observations, or have a daughter who buries her tear-stained face in my chest when the mop-headed little boy at school calls her a whiney-butt, again.



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