Why does it seem like every mother of a large brood, with the exception of me, is in denial? I’ve yet to hear one of these mothers come right out and say, “Fuck you, uterus, or damn you, Ortho Novum! You both royally screwed me too many times!” Why do these large quivered mamas feel compelled to only say sickeningly sweet things about the fact that they are a walking fetus factory? Just once, I’d like to hear one echo my sentiment that it sucks to be helpless against repeated, ill timed pregnancy. What are they so afraid of? Do they fear being called a bad mom? It is a reality that not every child of a large family was a planned baby. Trust me. Seven of mine were “Oh shitballs” moments. Yes, all seven. You can choose to argue with me on that, if you want, but it is the honest to goodness truth. I tried, like a son of a gun, to stop. When I realized that stopping was not an option, I decided to settle for spacing them out. Nope, it obviously wasn’t going to happen. 

Our first baby was the result of a total drunken moment of passion. So, I’ll take responsibility and admit that we were just idiots. Marlie is proof that even stupid moments can yield wonderful results. After our first, I converted to Catholicism and agreed to use NFP. Unfortunately, Natural Family Planning is a two person effort and only one of us was really doing it. Voila, baby number two, Daniel Jr.! Then came the “pull out” method. Uh…that does not work for a man who pre ejaculates. Sorry for the over abundance of information, but it is true. We call that lesson, Trenton. He is a cute little accident! Next came the nursing pill. I was pregnant the month after starting that, with Phillip. Condoms? They break and I have a two legged, sass mouthed, four year old Aiden to prove it. Those female condoms and that foamy spermicidal stuff are both jokes. Maybe God knew that I needed the fireball that is Ella. Even an IUD was no match for my body’s mission to pop out a record breaking amount of babies. My uterus spat out that little plastic and copper device, like a child rejects brussel sprouts. Unfortunately it spat that sucker straight through my uterine wall and into my rectum….but that is another story. Luckily, the end result was a healthy little Reed. My point is, birth control doesn’t work unless your body allows it to. My body would not allow anything we tried to interfere with its procreative recreation. Finally, my husband went in for the big V, much to his resistance. 

Do I regret my kids being born? No. At least, not 98% of the time. There are those days, however, when I’d like to jump ship. Who doesn’t have those? Am I thrilled that I was unable to stop my baby factory of a body? Hell no! I did not enjoy the shitty side effects of seven back to back pregnancies. I was relieved to return to an ungestating state and cried when it ended in yet another pregnancy. Call me selfish. Call me a bad mother. At least I have balls to say it. (I’m seriously looking into that possibility, since sometimes I ended up pregnant when we didn’t even have sex during ovulation!) I wish that more fertile Myrtles would stand up and admit to being pissed when the little pregnancy stick turned up with two pink lines. I want to know that someone else threw that test at their husband and threatened to cut off his balls if he did not go get a vasectomy. It is okay to love your children and simultaneously curse the fact that your uterus failed to respect your wishes or that birth control was useless in giving you a rest. I say it and I’m still a good mom…or at least a mediocre one! Call my kids frustrating accidents or call them joyous blessings, I say they are both and I sure wish more moms in my boat, would verbally agree.  

Fit Pregnancy recently released their list of the best cities to have a baby, and U.S. Crunchy Central Portland, Oregon was at the top. The magazine looked at the 50 largest cities and their quality of health care, breastfeeding rates, availability of doulas and midwives, stroller friendly parks, etc. Results were tabulated by the “Fit Pregnancy Advisory Board”, whoever they are — probably a bunch of interns throwing darts at a map. Maybe I’m just bitter because my hometown, Chicago, ranked number 28th. What? Who wouldn’t want to have a baby in a Cook County hospital? And the Windy City gets an “F” for stroller-friendliness? The whole place is covered with concrete, what’s not stroller-friendly about that? Have you ever tried to push a stroller on a wooded trail or through a lush meadow? Not fun. Hmmph. Here’s a run down of the top 10:

1. Portland - perfect for socialists who don’t like to shave their armpits.
2. Minneapolis - great if you’re having a baby popsicle.
3. San Francisco - every commercial that uses a runaway ball, car, piano, etc. films on San Francisco’s hills — that’s stroller-friendly?
4. Seattle - like Portland, but with more caffeine and software moguls.
5. Denver - good luck with those high altitude breathing exercises.
6. Boston - if you’re carrying a wicked pissa, Boston is freakin’ awesome.
7. Omaha - so boring I don’t even have anything to say about it.
8. Virginia Beach - best thing Virginia has going for it? It’s not West Virginia.
9. Austin - just hope your due date isn’t during South by Southwest.
10. Albuquerque - actually, Albuquerque is kinda nice.

Bottom of the list? Detroit. So at least we’re better than the Motor City. Which is like being a better parent than Britney Spears.

I will admit that I cringe whenever I hear someone say, “Guess what? We’re pregnant!” The phrase really rubs me the wrong way. I think it’s because I never romanticized the whole pregnancy process, so to me “we’re pregnant” just feels so corny and cloying. Couple that with my bit of anal insistence on proper language use and disdain of malapropisms, and the eyes tend to roll back into my skull — not exactly following the rules for politeness on hearing such joyous news from a friend (perhaps that’s why I don’t have many of them).

So imagine my reaction reading this piece from the L.A. Times about a Christian group — quelle surprise — that’s trying to “change abortion’s pronoun”:

These days, he channels the grief into activism in a burgeoning movement of “post-abortive men.” Abortion is usually portrayed as a woman’s issue: her body, her choice, her relief or her regret. This new movement — both political and deeply personal in nature — contends that the pronoun is all wrong.

“We had abortions,” said Mark B. Morrow, a Christian counselor. “I’ve had abortions.”

I don’t doubt that some men may feel a sense of loss, but slapping a label on it and treating it like some sort of syndrome is a bit much, is it not? He goes on:

Morrow, the counselor, described his regret as sneaking up on him in midlife — more than a decade after he impregnated three girlfriends (one of them twice) in quick succession in the late 1980s. All four pregnancies ended in abortion.

Years later, when his wife told him she was pregnant, “I suddenly realized that I had four dead children,” said Morrow, 47, who lives near Erie, Pa. “I hadn’t given it a thought. Now it all came crashing down on me — look what you’ve done.”

What have you done? You prevented yourself from lining up “baby mamas” like you were P. Diddy, that’s what. I was prepared to write it off as a guy a bit too much in touch with his feelings until I read that this melodrama was part of a bigger plot — to use the passionate stories to try and influence the Supreme Court:

Therapist Vincent M. Rue, who helped develop the concept of post-abortion trauma, runs an online study that asks men to check off symptoms (such as irritability, insomnia and impotence) that they feel they have suffered as a result of an abortion. When men are widely recognized as victims, Rue said, “that will change society.”

Abortion rights supporters watch this latest mobilization warily: If anecdotes from grieving women can move the Supreme Court, what will testimony about men’s pain accomplish?

“They can potentially shift the entire debate,” said Marjorie Signer of the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice, an interfaith group that supports abortion rights.

I say not to worry — we all know that when a large group of privileged white men feel they are suffering an injustice, nothing is ever done about it, right?

Oh, shit.

A former coworker of mine, who came and went within a span of 4 months, announced during her 2nd week of employment that she was expecting a baby. Congratulations were offered to the glowing, petite mother who could not have been more than a few days pregnant, given her size 0 figure.

Surprise, surprise. She tells us, she’s not 2 weeks pregnant, she expecting in 2 weeks! Apparently, her and her husband hired a surrogate to carry their biological child and being the intrusive, nosy-nelly I am, I said to her, “Isn’t that wonderful that there are options for loving people to have children when they aren’t able to?”

Okay, so pretty presumptuous of me, I know. Then she says that getting pregnant wasn’t their problem, but that she has a pinched nerve in her neck that sometimes requires pain killers and she didn’t think it was safe to carry a baby. “Plus,” she said, “I have a weight restriction of 15 pounds, because of my pinched nerve, so I couldn’t carry a baby to term, unless I wanted to be bed ridden and who wants that?” (I dunno know, someone who wants a baby perhaps?)

Since she’s being so free with the info, I say, “Huh. Your surrogate must be a really good person.”

“No, she’s not,” she replies. “We had to pay her and we paid her really well.”

I couldn’t resist. “Tell me if this question is too personal, but what does something like that cost?”

“Enough to send her 3 boys to college.”

So, two weeks later she is out on maternity leave. Apparently, she likes the number two, since she also took two weeks off for her maternity leave. (Yep, two whole weeks.)

Then, she comes back, hair perfect, clothes ironed but emotionally distraught and she proceeds to lose it. Every day, she comes in crying. She complains incessantly about how much her nanny costs and that she is paying her nanny more than she makes. I suggest that perhaps she quit? She says she can’t, her husband’s company is laying people off. It starts to annoy me. She cries all day. She claims she’s going through post-partum depression. (Is that possible, if you haven’t actually given birth?)

And then she ups and quits.

Weird.

Wow, given the giant stick up her ass I figured the bitch hadn’t gotten laid in years.

Word on the street is that Nancy Grace, of bug-eyed, mega-attitude, Tammy Faye makeup fame, is expecting twins. Ms. Grace has already deemed herself to be the exploiter, er, protector of child victims everywhere, so she’s sure to be a good mother. Doesn’t seem like she’s the type that would become unhinged over the presence of a certain undesirable method of hanging ones clothes at all…

From Access Hollywood (home of credible news, of course!):

NEW YORK, NY (June 26, 2007) — TV’s legal eagle, Nancy Grace, has revealed that she is four months pregnant with twins. But that’s not her only headliner: she also snuck off and got married!

“I always said I wanted a family,” Grace told Access Hollywood. “I grew up in happy, loving family [and] I wanted it too. But until now I just thought it wasn’t meant to be for me. And as part of God’s mysterious plan, I’m given this wonderful blessing late in life — and I could not be happier.”

47-years-old, and happier than ever! The CNN “Headline News” host married Atlanta-based banker David Linch in April. The couple reportedly met when they attended Mercer College together in the late 1970s.

Huh, just curious, does “God’s mysterious plan” include Clomid?