Motherhood

"Say you pregnant and guess who the daddy?"
-Tupac

I am on birth control, two brands, two pastel colored pills, both FDA unapproved, barred by both presidential candidates from reproduction, bipartisanism at its best. Today marked my first shift as a surrogate mother; a fill in, thirty pounds underweight, tattooed, and a listener of shockingly vulgar rap, I am the appointed caretaker of twin girls; surprisingly cute doubles who eat the inner lining of their matching button-sized and freckled noses.

I awoke in the morning, at the tail end of an explicit dream, contents withheld for obvious reasons, and thought only of porn – my computer recently cleared of its pornographic spawn by Spybot: search and destroy – and masturbation. A melody of pocket-size knocks sounded; I moaned, the sound of pleasure muted, and pushed the heavy comforter from my naked limbs. I hunched over the breakfast table, a mug of caffeinated tea nestled in my palm, and thumbed crisp pages of strippers, fake tits, and pussy (Diablo Cody reference), while the vertically disabled shoveled leggo-my-eggo blueberry waffles into the perfect circles of their pristine mouths. Two lopsided ponytails later, my ovaries ached, other various parts of the female genitalia throbbed, I was miserable, trapped in between the unforgiving and bitter cold metal jaws of motherhood.

I fell to my knees in genuflection, "Ariel, ginger haired custodian of girlhood, occupy my womb-sharing charges, release me from my role as moral educator." She is well equipped, asexual and one-tailed, for this title, more so than I, two-tailed and hypersexual. The zombies, lulled into a conscious coma by Disney, absorbed the core of its family values; I chatted on the phone, twirling the cord, and smacking my gum in recalled teenage angst. The list of To-Dos glared at me from the hazy counter, covered by a scattering of waffle crumbs and remnants of late night munchies. I complied with its written abuse; shoving airport purchased headphones into the pockets of my ears, I listened to a Tupac sermon on the consequences of a bland suburban existence, and caroled a chorus of Amens. My too small to be ghetto hips swayed to the infectious beats; I dropped a load of whites into the spewing hot water, silently counting blessings for my post-washing machine birth. Miniature models of pink socks littered the floor. The walls of my womb rippled in offspring -yearning, a biological desire for a swaddled carrier of my genes. I pinched my belly button in discipline and forced a projection of stretch marks and excess baby weight across the insides of my eyelids.

The anti-childbirth development was stunted by Lil Wayne, and an involuntary lip bite, a canine tooth bite that drew a drop of blood. It dripped into the resident freckle on my bottom lip. I flicked my tongue against its salty taste. An imported blonde bob gaped at the ink garden spanning my hip with bulging eyes. It seemed I had acquired excess baggage. The twins, upon finding the fair haired addition, joined her in a chase around the growing fumes of pre-school laundry heaps, establishing their girlhood hierarchy with bullying, two-person cliques, and a lesson well learned – three is a crowd. When I attempted to intervene, to establish my own primal hierarchy, my place as dominant alpha female, I was threatened with "dinosaur growls". I retreated wounded to the corner.

The sun long set, exhausted, with a wild tangle of curls piled atop my pulsing head, I stirred Kale into a pot of garbanzo beans, onions, and chicken broth, a circle of half-cooked sausages sweated at my right (crude jokes here please). The girls tucked under their covers, savoring the two plus decades before their wombs would nag, and I rubbed my eyes in paranoia. Dark circles follow frizzy hair and late day headaches. Now, an hour short of a new November day, I find myself sipping caffeinated drinks, my stomach nauseated from the blowing kitchen smells; with fingers shaking as I hastily type the first installment of my anti-motherhood campaign. Hastily might be an exaggeration, children are talent succubi. My creativity is fraternizing with the footie pajamas and piggy tails.