12 12 2009

Being a mother means that you are constantly a purveyor of TMI. Get two mothers in the same room, and it won’t be long before they are discussing the color and texture of the mucus they aspirated from their baby’s nose, the degree of their tears from labor and delivery or the ins and outs of their placenta. It’s true. When someone finds out you have a baby, they want to know how old the baby is and that leads to a discussion of how they sleep and how many diapers they go through in a day. Next thing you know, you’ve divulged that your baby’s last poop was green and was dotted with what appeared to be chunks of spinach and carrot.

This happens to every mother. I guarantee it. I am an extremely private person generally, but even I have fallen prey to this phenomenon. Maybe this is due to the fact that being a mother means you are completely responsible for taking care of another human being’s body. Maybe people who take care of ill and/or aging parents exhibit the same behavior. I can’t really say why this is the case, but I do know that I spent a good half hour last night at holiday party discussing with a woman I just met the position and length of umbilical cords in our pregnancies and the number of times we each vomited when giving birth to our children. And I am afraid this might happen again.

I don’t do this. I talk about music and politics and history and art and science and technology and other intellectual topics. I swear. But now there’s some woman out there who believes that I know nothing about anything outside of bowel movements and the physiology of a pregnant uterus. Next time I go to a party I’m sitting in the corner with the latest issues of the New Yorker and Scientific American and a copy of Atlas Shrugged, and I will only talk about their contents. I’m a smart and cultured woman, damn it. Hear me roar!




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