I am a used uterus. Only slightly used, mind you. I’ve done my job and I think my Boss Lady would give me a glowing recommendation. We get along pretty well; I try not to cramp her style too much and she doesn’t expect a lot from me, so the relationship works.
I’ve had two tenants in the past 11 years. The first one accidentally gave me a good punch a few days ago but I just smiled indulgently, remembering when those blows came from the inside instead of the outside. The latest tenant gave Boss Lady a kiss on the belly just this evening, but I knew it was for me. I’ll always have a soft, squishy lining for these little people that once called me home.
However, I’m retired. Not officially, because at 30, Boss Lady could call me back into service for at least another 10 years, but we’ve had a tete-a-tete and have come to the mutual agreement that I can kick back and enjoy the next 50 or so years in peace, just hanging out while my neighbours continue to work day in, day out. It’s my reward for a job well done.
I didn’t give her much trouble in our youth (except for my own rebellious stage when I allowed myself to get pregnant at 19 – oops!), took great care of my first and second tenants, pushed them out into the world with relative ease (although I was not the quickest at it), and have pretty much kept to myself each month, doing what I have to with as little inconvenience to Boss Lady as possible (Clarabelle and Bessie upstairs are a different story though, they’re not always nice to BL, or so I hear).
So now, 5 ½ years after my last tenant, Boss Lady can hold a baby and I don’t even so much as twitch. I’m just sipping a martini (BL likes Caesars, but I’m a martini kind of gal), reading a trashy romance, and minding my own beeswax. I even overheard her telling my buddy, ‘The D”, that he could get the big snip if he so desired. He’s less than keen since my current tenant, Mirena, keeps me out of ‘the family way’, unless someone changes their mind. Which I doubt.
And speaking of “The D”, maybe I should go pay him a visit. He’s usually pretty nice to me too. 😉
Apparently, I’m not the only uterus with a voice. An early follower from Twitter, My Motherful Life, lets her uterus speak up and share her story. Enjoy!
Howdy! It has been a long time since I’ve gotten a chance to speak for myself. These last few years, my supervisor has been making decisions for me, and it has been quite the journey!
So far I’ve managed to lodge, and later evict, three squatters. Two boys and one girl. Surprisingly my female tenant was the most troublesome.
All of my squatters were coaxed out in some way. The first was asked to exit early for safety reasons. The second was two days late and a visit (aka pain in the ass physical exam) to the doctor resulted in things being jump started. And the last had lapsed on her lease by five days, but another visit to the doctor was all the motivation she needed to seek shelter elsewhere.
Fortunately for me, finding squatters to hang around has been surprisingly easy. Riding the crimson wave has always been a very regular and punctual activity for me, so figuring out when my two best friends were doing their thing was a simple task. My last squatter had a knack for sitting on my nearest neighbor, the bladder, and making the lady upstairs have to pee all.the.time. And all of them gave her some serious heart burn-even water.
I do find it highly amusing to hear never-occupied uteri (?) discuss the complexity of harboring fugitives and having the authorities work to get them out. Popular culture has done a hell of job glossing over the reality of what pregnancy and childbirth are REALLY like. The reality of housing a squatter for so many months and the toll it takes is not for the faint of heart! Pregnancy is beautiful. But the part that comes after, the eviction part—there is nothing pretty about that. And I don’t mean the miracle of bringing forth life and all that jazz, but the actual grunting, panting, pushing, and releasing of fluids is not pretty.
My last squatter is now a little over seven months old and doing great! My commander in chief and the first husband have recently started talking about one more tenant, at least circling the idea because she doesn’t want to wait years to start over again with baby-dom. However, the original squatter (oldest son) has made it clear that he’s not at all interested in having any new additions—he has enough siblings he says! It’s not decided yet, but the boss lady has put a final acceptance notice for new applicants that concludes at the end of summer 2013.
My supervisor is pretty easy going. She’s trying to be more active these days which isn’t always fun for me, but I’m adjusting to it. Overall, I have to say that she’s not too bad! I’m undecided about how I feel on having to possibly house yet another squatter, but I guess I’ll know before too long since I don’t really have a choice in the matter🙂 Ultimately I’ll do my duty and put up with the stretching, contracting, bumping, and straining. A uterus has to do what a uterus has to do!
A dear friend of mine has a squatter and she’s finding out there’s some problems with the plumbing. The foundation is cracking and the basement is leaking.
Imagine working everyday to keep your guests warm, fed, comfortable…. but your home just isn’t cooperating! The wee one has been squatting just shy of 15 weeks now and though it appears to be content – guessing on the party going on in there I’d say he’s pretty darned content – her home is at risk of crumbling around her guest and forcing him out on the streets where he just can’t survive.
Our most important job in the world – the one thing we are meant to do – is to love, nourish and provide for this little spec. A little spec who needs to grow into a full human. Skin, bones, heart, kidneys, a brain… a little soul with a big personality, just waiting for their stage call.
I may be used up, old, tattered. I may have battle wounds that would make a war hero cringe. Maybe (just maybe) I’m up for retirement after a terrific (long, arduous, non-glamorous) career as a pro squatter-hoster-person.
But what if I wasn’t? What if I couldn’t do my job? What if I’d failed at the one thing I’m supposed to be great at? What then? How would I compute that?
I would be crushed. My identity is wrapped around what I’m supposed to do and suddenly there would be nothing for me to do but constantly prepare for guests that never come. Ad nauseam.
So to my dear friend I say – although cliché – Keep calm and carry on sit your ass down on a chaise, eat bonbons and do nothing but keep that spec warm, fed, and happy. Cracking foundations and leaky basements aside now is NOT the time for a major renovation. Do just enough to keep the squatter safe and let the experts do the rest.
Whether you’re entitled to a gold-plated speculum or your standard-issue stainless steel ones, you and I are one and the same. Godspeed dear friend, Godspeed. Trust He has a plan (cause your Boss-Lady sure didn’t!) and do what you do best: Be You!
I’ve had a few squatters come through and it seems they never want to leave. The place wouldn’t pass a building inspection – the pelvic floor is all but ruined – and the neighbors are weird. I’ve been kicked, poked, prodded and generally abused by Herself and aliens alike.
I build a nice home and each month some bitch comes along and destroys it unless a squatter shows up before she does.
Just when I start getting used to the intruder the goons cut me open and pull the thing out of my once-cozy abode. Then they try to ‘fix’ me. I now sport a perma-smile, ‘Joker’-style. Cheese!
I hear them talking sometimes during their ‘private meetings’. There may be more.
I’m sad, and droopy. There’s nothing firm left on me.
There might be a labor dispute in the making; the working conditions are dismal and the pay is non-existent.
Look. It’s not pretty in here right now. Scars and vandalism will do that to you. I’m bitter. and cold. Somehow those squatters manage to warm up the place but without them here the chill gets right to your bones. Like a deep, dark, cave so old you have to brush aside the cobwebs just to get in.
Yeah, I said it. Herself is weird. And annoying. And she has BALLS.
Weird enough her uterus is streaming Youtube videos while tweeting and blogging. Annoying enough she sings early ’90 throwback songs at the top of her lungs.
Now she thinks she’s Julia freakin Roberts and pulled a classic Pretty Woman move.
Friday night, I was promised a night out with the girls, lots of alcohol, and yummy Mexican food. The going gossip around us uteri is her friend TRIED to make a reservation but was told she couldn’t – and when we (and by WE I mean I) got to the bar she was told it would be a 3 hour wait for a table for 6, and we (and by WE I mean SHE) should have made reservations.
With the rest of the group about to show up, Herself and friends were pretty bummed. Until the missus got out of the car like she had a plan or something.
Now as much as she’s weird and annoying and somewhat embarrassing and such, I’m so proud of what happens next.
She marched in like she owned the place, mustered the biggest fake smile she could manage and asked for a manager. She explained that she was refused a reservation then told she should have made one. She understands it’s busy and that there might be a 45 min – 1 hour wait on a crazy-ass Friday night…. but not even taking their names down? 3 hours minimum before they’re even looked at because the group is larger than 4????
And – wait for it… – she adds:
We’re a bunch of moms who just wanted to go out for a nice meal and some dancing with friends and maybe get a little drunk. I know our group is a bit bigger but we have money to spend and we want to spend it here, on your food and your booze.
15 minutes later we were eating nachos and drinking margaritas at OUR table. That’s right! If I wasn’t a uterus I’d be damn sure that woman had gonads.
Never underestimate the willpower of a stressed-out mom in search of alcohol and/or freedom on her first night out in months.