I Hate Baby Bellies, Newborn Photos and Mummy Slang
By: Digital Bitch
Tags: Parenthood, Fear, Motherhood, Children, Pregnancy

I Hate Baby Bellies, Newborn Photos and Mummy Slang

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

If you are pregnant, I will most probably empty my seat in a subway for you but don’t expect much more, please. I will immediately move to the completely opposite end of the carriage so that I don’t have to be looking at your sweet little baby bump as you call it. It makes me physically sick.

Yes, feel free to be mad at me already! Your emotions are correct even though you may have annoyingly irrational mood swings that make everybody else hate you. But the actual horrible person here is me as I successfully manage to transform my own insecurity into pitiful hatred which makes me wanna throw up from everything that reminds me of it.

I am at the age when many of my college classmates are spending their time at home, feeding a bunch of screaming kids and watching one fucking cartoon all over again until their last brain cell dies from the unbearably stupid pink face of Peppa Pig. And when that happens, in some cases even much earlier than that, a completely different mindset takes over the show and they start doing things I am unable to comprehend.

For example, why does everyone seem to forget the right kind of language? I mean, c’mon, what makes you think you can speak in plural now? The only two reasons why you may have my blessing to use we instead of I is if you suffer from a bipolar disorder or are royal in the middle ages. But I guess you aren’t either, am I right?

So shut the fuck up and don’t bother me with your miserable attempt to become one entity with your child. That is a privilege of mitochondria and I hope you are a bit more advanced that a collection of basic cells. However, I can understand that the nine months of pregnancy may make you feel like one for that time period. But when you let your significant other show off when saying to their friends: “We have delivered our little one under five hours!”, I have no respect for you or him. There is one advantage, though, he will be yours forever because no woman in the whole universe can possibly get attracted by this type of dirty talk.

Another sure way to scare people off is using baby talk when speaking with adults. I get it, you want to sound cute to make your brat love you so instead of normal vocabulary you opt for woo-woos, wee-wees, bum-bums and pee-pees. But everyone who is not wearing a diaper, including your grandparents that may have one again, doesn’t need to listen to it. Some of your non-native friends may even think you lost your ability to express yourself altogether. And if you really cannot let it go, make a new kink out of it, find a sub and talk to them like that.

Then we have the pictures. For some strange reason, you ditch all the smart-ass bullshit on how sensitive content should stay out of social media that you used to proclaim and start uploading very explicit photos right into the faces of your poor Facebook, Instagram followers and weirdos who rather check on your than all the other women on PornHub.

Starting with the terrible half-naked pics where you showcase your belly as if it was some sort of an achievement to get fat without any effort. I bet you were the one dispising all your female friends for posting selfies in tiny bikinis that you wear only in your dreams. But now, it’s your chance to legitly undress in front of the cameras and expect nothing but at least 100 likes. You may also attempt to increase the reach by tagging your partner with his hairy chest and back, holding your belly like a melon that he drank vodka from last night.

But the horror, unfortunately, doesn’t end there. As soon as the little wrinkled monkey gets born, another photo tsunami floods everybody’s stream. This time, displaying the tiny humans peacefully sleeping while being very unnaturally positioned in the middle of a basket, dressed up as a random animal or even a fruit. Or even worse, the idea of parental nudity strikes back when the happy couple lets shot themselves with the newborn resting on their unappealing bodies already totally exhausted from the first two sleepless nights.

For the love of God, please stop. There is literally nothing you can make better in the world by publishing such monstrosity. The only outcome is that you will lose a couple of virtual friends and the teenage version of your kid will hate you for a nonconsensual public humiliation which may even be a crime in fifteen years from now.

Last but not least, I would like to tell you about the absolutely horrific way women manage to describe all the physical challenges of motherhood. Every time I am forced to listen to some of the very disturbing stories, I keep asking myself whether it is better to get a lepra than a bear a child. And I suppose I am not the only one struggling with such a dilemma as it is statistically proven that the birth rate has significantly decreased over the past decade in the most developed countries that also happen to host websites like scarymommy.com.

So what’s the point of destroying the future of mankind by sharing the awful truth with the potential carriers of the next world leaders? You are doing no good when you openly speak about a fourth-grade vaginal tearing to all of us, women who are still trying to accept the unfair destiny of being the only sex with ovaries and a womb. There is no point in learning in advance about never-ending nausea, haemorrhoids and constipation, breast infections, urinal and faecal incontinence, hair loss, postpartum depression, vaginal discharge, painful sex, stretch marks, hormonal inbalance, extensive sweating, and all the other 5,973 other serious issues every mother may encounter. I am only writing about it and I feel like my eggs are committing suicide as we speak.

Sure, you may argue that every baby is a miracle hence all these inevitable challenges should be embraced and accepted as a natural part of the life’s changing journey. But I know that deep inside you regret the one night you forgot to take your pill. I am calling it #fateslap, bitch. Because out of the two of us, I am the one just on my way to a spontaneous meeting my childless friends that may turn into a crazy sex party now while you are stuck at home alone with your T-shirt covered with vomit, greasy hair you haven’t had time to wash in the whole week and the only desperate wish to be me at least for one fucking night.