Tuesday, August 28, 2012


Being a mom of two young boys requires some fairly extreme sacrifices. I often wished for girls and dreamed of nail-painting and hair-braiding and baking and doing dishes together. Fuck. What is that? As if a domestic atom remains hidden deep within me, longing to be the stay-at-home-goddess that I so despise. But. Guessing from my many women friends that actually parent girls, I'd say that my fantasies about raising girls are about as far off as, well, any other fantasy.

Boys, however, require....slime. Slime, a substance that abhors me. It is as hard for me to look at slime as it is for many to look at a hypodermic needles or at a drill that is about to enter the mouth. I was one of those women who gasped after being asked if I'd like a mirror during delivery. "Hell no," I not-so-meekly replied, "I do not want to see that human until it is wiped up, cleaned up, and preferably bathed." Slime is repulsive to me. Absolutely. I can't even eat eggs if they have a bit of uncooked yolk. Agghhh. I am dry-heaving after merely typing the words.

So. My recent parental sacrifice: I took my boys fishing. I was assured by my loving and vindictive husband that I had no cause to worry because Myles (the eldest son) would "take care of it all." Little did I realize that being within a few inches of said "taking care of it all" I would have to witness (watch AND listen) to the ick of the wiggly and helpless worms being cut (really cut! by a knife!) in HALF before being impaled onto a hook. I could hear their screams of terror. But it only got worse for them. They were then slowly lowered into the depths of the lake to be nibbled on by even slimier and uglier creatures: Fish who would come on board our boat, not amused, with gouged out eyes and bloody mouths (and swung mere millimeters from my eyes) only to wait for an 8-year old human to rip and tear the hook out of eye or cheek with about as much gentleness as a hungry alligator looking at a sweet little bunny.

I admit it: There was a little pride involved while watching my eldest decompose and mutilate these poor fish as he separated them from their hooks. I would say 10% pride, 90% disgust. But that 10% was amazed at his capacity for slime. Something clearly not passed down from me.
It was the hardest stomach challenge since childbirth.

I say: I wish we had girls. And then I say: I don't want to do that again.

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