Monday, June 23, 2008

Open letter to my ovaries

Ah, ovaries, you crazy kids. We're into, what, our fourth decade now? I mean, of course we've been together since the beginning, but it's only been the last 34 years that we've been working together.

Come to think of it, maybe 'together' is too generous.

To be honest, it seems we've been at cross-purposes from the get-go. I just wanted you to behave like all the other girls' ovaries and you steadfastly insisted on going your own way. Which, although extremely frustrating most of the time, probably prevented several children from being conceived at most inauspicious times. So thanks for that, I guess.

Later, I threw all sorts of nasty hormonal preparations at you in attempts to spur you into action according to my whims. Like a spoiled, overfed, grouchy dog, you humored me by jumping through the hoop once but that's as far as you were willing to go, cookies be damned.

It took another decade or so, but we finally settled into a truce of sorts. I would give you just enough junk to keep you under control and you would leave me alone. And that worked pretty well for some years. Yep, you lulled me into complacency and then you decided to get frisky!

BTW, I don't think I ever thanked you for that 20th anniversary surprise present. The label 'Advanced Maternal Age'? That's an honor that I blame on owe to you, completely. I'm convinced you did it purely as an elaborate mindf'k, but I appreciate the effort nonetheless. Heck, when the fat, spoiled, grouchy dog gets off the couch, even if it's to eat the pork roast off the counter, you have to give him props for moving his ass, right?

And that other time, three years later? That time I popped positive the very day Ex went in for the Big V? Oh, you wacky bitches, now that was a hoot! It didn't quite work out, but we all had a good laugh over your quirky sense of humor. Ha-frickin'-ha.

Once you got that perverse streak out of your system (and after some creative pharmacology) we managed to settle back into something approximating normalcy. Last year was tough, I know. I admit: I got kind of paranoid about the possibility of appearing on the cover of The Enquirer as The World's Oldest Preggo and I panicked. I offered you the junk you used to crave, but you told me in no uncertain terms that you were done with that shit. And, oh, how you make me pay for that! I'm sorry, but I just didn't trust you. Can you blame me?

But that's all old news. Now I sense you're getting tired. Oh, I know you're not done yet, and I don't believe for a second that you'll go gentle into that good night. I'm sure you've got plenty of hell left to raise before we call it quits.

You know, as inconvenient as it's been, I kind of admire your 'F-all-y'all' attitude. But if you even think of trying for World's Oldest Preggo, your collective ass is mine. I swear I'll take you out myself with a grapefruit spoon.


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