i wish i were more like my uterus

that sounds odd, right?  i thought so as i lay in a fiery bath moaning under the roar of the spigot. why did my uterus hate me so much? i thought. why why why? i whined in my hormonal cesspool. i had nothing but respect for it. contorting in pain and nausea i still thought highly of my potential baby cooker. and that’s when it struck me. 

why o why can’t i be more like my uterus?

she’s so damn independent! she’s patient. an organizer. a creator. while she appreciates that every month i suffer intense pain, emotional gymnastics and zits, she cleans house, as it were. every damn month. regardless of how great and balanced i feel, she cleans the g.d. house again.

sweeping under the rugs is no easy task, she seems to say, but really i’m doing the hard part, you just hang on a few days until i’m done.

timely? please! it’s not like i remind her what the moon phase is.  ok, sometimes she gets confused, cleaning early when we travel or before an important doctor’s appointment, but for the most part, she stays true to her agenda.

if i were more of a team player, she’d churn out a fat baby so cute i’d puke at first sight which, honestly, i’d probably do anyway.  the rest of the time, she quietly lines the nest, alternates ovary release dates and then prepares to do it all over again. indefatigable, she waits for my internal ah-ha! moment (otherwise known as the ticking clock) so she can fall to on the progeneration of the species. years of repetitive wasted effort without a murmur of disappointment in me. 

i want to be more like that.  what i do may offend or cause pain or seem wasteful, but a girl gotta do what a girl gotta do. so this girl gotta clean house, as it were.