Thursday, May 1, 2014

Girl Crazy

I love this boy.
Well my friends, the newest addition will be here in about ten weeks (give or take) and I am completely shitting myself.  Not literally, of course - that doesn’t usually happen until one is actually giving birth, but I digress.  If you happen to be a close friend of mine and, let’s be realistic here - who else would take the time to read my BS – you know that I’m not exactly thrilled about having a girl child.  I know it’s probably not PC for me to say that (except in China) but it’s the truth, and you can always count on me to tell the truth, however unpleasant it may be.  Honestly, I’m not really all that thrilled to be having another child of any gender, but add in that she happens to be a female and it’s just adding insult to injury.  I will, without a doubt, love her once she makes her entrance downstage vagina, but until we actually meet face to face I’m afraid I’m feeling rather panicked about it.  

The thing is that being the Mother of a boy really works for me.  I like cars and airplanes, and that my son’s response to seeing a doll baby is to make a face and throw it across the room.  I can totally relate to that.  I don’t have to worry that my issues about the way I look and my negative body image are going to adversely impact Noah’s own personal self-image, ultimately leading him down some horrible path of self-destruction.  My sub-par parenting skills might have the same effect, but at least it won’t be because of something as superficial as the way I look.  According to what I’ve heard, my son will always think I’m beautiful whether I decide to head down the Botox route or not.   

Not so for Baby Girl.  I think I’ll get maybe three good years out of her before she hates me and blames me for all of her problems.  It’s a very real possibility that she could be trying on clothes at the age of three and already detest her stick figure because I have inadvertently passed on my self-loathing via my amniotic fluid.  Plus girls always want to talk about their feelings, and emotions are not in my wheelhouse, folks (which is probably why I was drawn to comedy).  This girl child of mine is going to come home from school and expect me to commiserate about boys who don’t like her and some little brat who snubbed her at lunchtime and offer advice about how to deal with these schoolyard slights.  I’m not equipped for that!  I’ll have to be an actual adult and instead of telling my daughter to exact some sort of Mean Girls-style revenge on whichever little bitch is giving her a hard time I’m going to have to take the high road, when what the offender really needs is a right hook to her (surgically altered) nose. 

Oh, and let’s not even mention the whole sex and birth control aspect of this parenting-a-girl situation.  Boys are so much easier is this regard: hand the kid a box of condoms and send him on his way to prematurely ejaculate all over town.  Assuming Baby Girl takes after me in any way shape or form, she will end up sleeping with every loser in the United States while simultaneously wasting my heard earned money on a dead end career.  Folks, THERE IS NOT ENOUGH XANAX IN THE WORLD FOR ME TO HANDLE THIS. 

At this point all I can do is pray that the fact that this child has an adoring and wonderful Father will help to negate all of my neuroses.  If not, at least there’s always cognitive therapy. 

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