WARNING: THIS POST WILL NO DOUBT RAPIDLY SPIRAL INTO FURIOUS NONSENSE
I haven’t had a WTF rant in a while... it’s because two Fridays ago, there was an ‘incident’ that’s left me purple-faced and spitting. Spitting with indignation, not just randomly spitting on pavements... I’ve been so straight-up-and-down pissed off about this ‘incident’ that I’ve had to metaphorically cut my own tongue out lest I say something... illogical. That’s my problem here: you don’t get to rant without presenting SOME kind of logical argument to back yourself up. And my argument is as weak as tea made with thrice-used tea bags in times of war.
What happened? Travis was ill with the dreaded Green Snot Flu, the one that makes him schloop about the house, randomly vomiting up phlegm-coated 360ml of Nido formula. ‘Schloop’ by the way, is the sound made by a small child as they reach up to their nose with their tongue and attempt to vacuum up dripping stalactites of snot. Yes, green snot. Ergo, and all that...
Being feverish and with an Empaped suppository up his rear, Travis turned in early that evening. At 10pm the husband and I call it a night. At 10.30pm, Travis wakes up feeling refreshed and wondering why the hell all the lights are off. And that’s it. The Lionheart is awake, and therefore, so are we.
There’s a special circle of hell that only parents who are regularly awake after midnight know about.
After ZERO sleep, not even a 15-minute snatch, I prop my eyelids up with toothpicks, have my first-thing-in-the-morning ritual chunder (remember, I’m still in the early days of pregnancy) and report to my client’s office in Sandton at 9am where I will spend the rest of the day.
I feel like I’ve been thrown into a cement mixer! My limbs are stiff with exhaustion, my eyes are gritty and bloodshot, and my brain is like a squished bug that flew into a windscreen at high velocity... But I’m a professional, dammit!
Still, I commiserate with the girl who sits across from me. “My toddler woke up at 10.30pm and didn’t go back to sleep after that. I haven’t slept a wink,” I confess. Sympathetic smiles all around...
And then this Neanderthal, this insensitive slice of toe-jam, this crusty turd-muffer of a human being chips in: “No sympathy here. You WANTED to become a mother.”
(If you’re a parent, insert your choice of expletive *here*. If not, feel free to make the ‘cuckoo’ sign by your ear as you read this.)
What a complete wanker!
Let me just set the record straight: while Travis may not have been a planned pregnancy, you can be damn fucking certain that I CHOSE to become a mother. How perceptive of you! I didn’t have to go through with the pregnancy – this is South Africa, after all.
Upon finding out that there was a bun in my oven, I asked: “Can I provide this child with a stable home?” Check. “Can I provide this child with my time?” Check. “Can I provide for this child financially, even though I may well be a single mom?” Oh yes, check. And most importantly: “Do I have not just the resources, but the physical and emotional stamina to raise this child? The parenting skills?” And after quite a bit of soul-searching on that last one, the answer was, “Yes, I’m ready for the challenge.”
By your Neanderthal brand of logic, I don’t get to complain when I have sleepless nights because I was up caring for a sick child. And despite those sleepless nights, the fact that I still report for work so that I can earn the means to feed and clothe that child is no act of heroism. And I guess I don’t get to complain that I’m one of the 3% of mothers whose child was born with a disability or five... I should just suck it up and soldier on, hey?
So here is my dishwater tea of an argument, you childless brute:
Screw you, and the lifetime of lonely, empty years that lie before you too.
That is all.