Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Mother Nature needs a make-over.
What good is natural selection if the top Mom keeps doing her same cruel thing eon after eon? Even Betty Crocker evolves once in a while, as she should. As we all should. It's called "keeping up with the times." When was the last time Mother Nature bent a little to accommodate today's busy moms?
Allow me to personalize. I have this son, see, and he's a sophomore in college, and even though we live in the same city, I hardly ever see him. He's busy. And I miss him. I'm over 50 now, and for the first time, have a little time on my hands. Oh, the wisdom I could impart! The shoulder I could offer! The cookies I could bake!
The irony, of course, is that I was supposed to be doing all these things for the last nineteen years, and I did, but I was personally ambitious and distracted. I wanted to write books, act in plays, be in movies, all very competitive (and soul squashing) careers. And I did all those things, and it's been great, but it's all added up to, well, a few dollars and a squashed soul. (Do you hear a little "Father and Son" by Cat Stevens playing in the background?) Self-actualization, as it turns out, is overrated.
So I was wondering how Mother Nature got it so wrong? Why give women babies when they're young and ambitious? Why not save the whole mommy thing for the over-50 crowd? I was an okay mom then, but if I were to have a baby now? I'd rock it. And I threw my back out trying to pick up a toddler, I could afford a nanny to pick him up and hand him to me! And under this new dystopian family plan, young women would take care of their aging parents without having to worry about their own families, because they wouldn't have any. Everybody wins!
I'm going to pitch it the next time I get down with God. The obstetric arts would have to expand to accommodate all these late-in-life pregnancies, but I doubt they'd mind. New demands means new money. The insurance companies would hate it, but they hate everything.
I'm going to go to lunch with my son now, and try to pry a few details of his life out of him. Just think—under my plan, I'd be seventy-five and he'd be taking me to lunch. I think I'm on to something here.
Posted by Irene Ziegler at 12:22 PM