The Hand That Rocks the Cradle….

……………Gets Wicked Carpal Tunnel


“A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.” – Agatha Christie

From the moment you learned you were pregnant you patiently, albeit painfully, waited for the day you would again be normal. Wear a size six dress, smell lasagna without becoming violently nauseous, wear sneakers without slitting the backs to accommodate your gorged feet. These are the hormone-driven fantasies of the pregnant woman.

You now realize the classes you endured and books you read were woefully inaccurate in describing labor pains. The instant, and I mean instant you start labor, there is not a doubt in your mind what is happening. You make new life choices that previously seemed silly: you will join a convent and embrace celibacy, you will summarily remove the genitals of any man that touches your arm, you will divorce the animal that caused this pregnancy and become a bean picker in southern Mexico.

Natural childbirth seemed like the “Earth Mother/Age of Aquarius/Millennial Mom” thing to do. But, after selling your soul to the head nurse for Class A narcotics, breathing again becomes normal and you deliver your gift.

Once the nurse puts the joyous bundle atop your swollen, agonizing breasts, you count their fingers and toes, and your mind becomes a euphoric blank slate. The twenty-three hours of hard labor, the incessant bathroom runs, the inability to look at your grotesquely swollen ankles over your grotesquely swollen belly, the frequent chanting to your husband, “You’re gonna be a eunuch.”

Your mommy journal, rightfully entitled, “The Exorcist Chronicles” slips into oblivion. The pain, weight gain, sized DDD breasts, cases of toilet tissue, fifty-eight empty bags of peanut butter cups and hidden stash of almond roca cease to matter. Your overriding goal is to keep this gift from God happy, fed, clean, protected, content and comforted.

Blissfully, still under the influence of a morphine drip, you are unaware that achieving this goal will follow you into menopause. Your life is changed forever…and you don’t mind. Your dreams of dancing in the Bolshoi Ballet are readjusted, swimming with Green Sea Turtles in the Galapagos are secondary to a week at Disneyland, trekking Tibet no longer offers any magic…and you will never again be a size six–all right–size eight…

and it simply doesn’t matter.

…just my thoughts

Artwork: J. Kirk Richards

2 thoughts on “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle….

  1. You really do have a knack for descriptive sarcastic humor, JD. I love it. Your ability to take any episode of life and turn it into something so whimsical and funny is admirable. Humor isn’t the easiest thing to write, but you write it as if it’s second nature. …”The Exorcist Chronicles” LOL! I really enjoyed this. I enjoy everything you write. Whenever i get a notification that you’ve posted something new, it gives me something to look forward to. Keep it up, writer!

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