An Essay A Day For A Year
By Roe
Day 5, January 5, 2012
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Today’s essay fellow boys and girls is about Moms. Today’s essay Moms and Dads is about little girls that grow up to be Moms. Mom is always capitalized, because capitals were invented by and wielded by Moms. Moms are the hearth of the universe, the very bear hibernation den where we all come to as brand new little earth spirits, and from as fully developed, albeit inexperienced little newborn humans. Moms are the vast expanse of the universe containing everything that ever was or will be, and dads, who are just as important, but ever so small, are the bright little sperms, twinkling in the night like stars, waiting for a place to call home inside Mom.
I remember much of my gestation inside my Mom, the center of the universe. Most of all I remember being loved and desired with all her heart. I remember growing on the waves of what today only approaches the word we call orgasm, only a giant earth orgasm as a sexual adult is just a wee little wow! as a little curled up fetus inside of our Mom. When my Mom would cry, I felt tears from here to eternity and back, and the angels cried with us. And when she laughed her laugh of hope and joy, lightning itself felt jealous like a tiny little static spark. I can’t even find font or exclamations symbols big enough here for those wows, no earth bound wows from drugs to sex and bliss and back could approximate those joys, and I tear up remembering Mom’s happiness transmitted to me in my uterine world. I really miss my womb Mom.
And then I signaled for Mom to help me out of my warm and now very cramped abode, as we fetuses have done for a million years, and as we say in English “all hell broke loose”. The first thing I remember is, “mom, hello mom, mom!, MOM!, you’re not listening, help me out!” And she didn’t listen, or respond, or help, for 18 harrowing hours, and finally I was pulled out by seeming hydraulic jaws of death forceps, all black and blue, and octuple hella pissed off. And this in extreme brief was my transition from bliss inside Mom, to the roots of misogynist rage and perhaps someday male and female fetal birth trauma and anger to end us all. My birth, and your birth, everyone’s birth, defines us all. In the year to come I will write many essays about gorgeous little perfect, but rabid mad, or their opposite, apathetic and complacent babies that only barely survived Mom. But today’s essay is about the amazing power of Mom.
A long time ago Mom was a fetus and a newborn, and an adorable little girl, just like us. And she was powerful. That little girl knew things, she said things, and she could do things, amazing things. I remember my little sister, two years younger than me, smiling at me, her older wunder brother, when I did good things, and how proud I felt. I also remember her rolling her eyes and turning and walking away in disgust when I did bad or stupid things. And I remember feeling ashamed and like a humbled Atila when my frail little sister was disappointed in me. And I remember thinking, “girls are really powerful!” I remembered the time in Mommy’s womb and how it progressed to my horrid birth and even more heart breaking first years. I then set about loving Mommy, understanding Mommy, and surviving Mommy, so that I could grow big and try to keep my real manhood intact before I too responded in defense by being a mad Daddy.
If we could interrupt the chicken and the egg debate for just a minute, let’s pretend that we live in an ideal and perfect world. Mommy is the first goddess and masteress of the universe. She knows things. She says things. And she can do lots of amazing things. Daddy as her equal compliment and ruler as the first god and master sits next to her. Daddy adores Mommy and gives her purpose, which is me, baby. Mommy feels loved by Daddy to be his one and only girl, and Mommy rewards him with her beautiful body and is made pregnant often since she and Daddy really like to make love. And lastly Daddy keeps me and Mommy safe with his big muscles and brings home lots of yummy food. Mommy does the rest. Mommy can fry an egg while she suckles me with one hand, balance the books while the egg is flipping in mid air, and look at Daddy sideways because he just boo booed, all while she is heading up a corporation, just before she finishes her latest novel. We daddy’s just marvel at her. As a matter of fact our very existence is to marvel at her, ever part of her.
Since Mommy is ideal and the first, she has never been ignored, scoffed at, laughed at, denigrated, objectified, sidelined, diminished, or made to feel less or second, let alone be cat called as a sexy virgin on an immaculate pedestal, just before being dragged from now through history and life as a slut and a whore. So the first Mommy has no repressed unconscious trauma, no need for rebellion or retaliation, and no need to gore the boys and men that would even suggest that she is not in fact the perfect womb of the universe. So ideal Mommy loves the babies in her womb, and she listens to them with intuitive maternal instinct, and she births them lovingly in a quiet and safe place. She suckles her babies until they are ready to stop, and sleeps with her babies until they are ready to be independent from her and on their own, and she holds her babies as they cry, but lets them go out and be themselves as she smiles confidence. And there is much much more to ideal Mommy, and it didn’t come from Dr. Man or a his anything, it is ingrained in Mommy’s natural heart as the womb of the universe.
Naturally ideal begets ideal, and primordial maternal perfection imprinted on baby girl and boy alike equals the love I felt in the womb right through to this moment, without trauma or deprivation, or sadness or disappointment. I only long for such an amazing global orgasm as every spirit in the universe will cry tears of joy for us. But life of course has its way of “falling” from perfection, and such is the intention of our wonderful classroom called earth. Every moment from fertilization on down is less than perfect, and a fall, and birthing in its current hospital nightmare is a global catastrophe, and breeding ground for the rage and apathy all around us. And the fall continues right through childhood into our adulthood. Who can’t and doesn’t speak of the worries and woes around us?
Moms throughout history have never been weak, or stupid, or incapable, or god forbid second or victim to anything or anyone, not a single one. When the greatest power the universe has ever come up with (the builder and carrier of life), is made to feel less than her real true worth or dignity, she protects herself, and she survives. And when the last strong man in the world caves in and gives up, he will be thinking of his Mom and sister and wife and daughter, who will all still be standing strong all around, doing her very very difficult job, still flipping the eggs, still balancing the books, still running the corporation, and still missing the man that was supposed to love only her, make love to her, and keep her and her babies safe.
Mom’s way of surviving to protect herself and her babies when she is wronged virtually from conception, is to split off from own feminine self and maternal primordial power. My Mom couldn’t hear me in her own womb, couldn’t respond, and didn’t know how to mother. I remember every one of the 10,000 things she didn’t know how to do, or remember what to do, and each one of them tore at the heart of this little boy writing, and I was supposed to succumb to my male dominance of power and control, of insensitivity and violence, out of my own need to survive her and what I needed and missed.
Little boys are loving and sweet and sensitive and devoted and eternally adoring like no little girl could ever match, and I’m afraid that our whole world is upside down. And I promised myself that I wouldn’t forget the rules of a little boy and little girl that my mom and dad forgot, and it has been a long hard road to get to here right now, as I have lived a life of grieving tears. But here goes:
Dear Mom, dear sis, dear girlfriend, dear Nica my beautiful wife, dear my three daughters Xiomara, Espania, and Leili, dear beautiful lady next door and across the world and you Miss Ms. and Mrs. reading this now. (And dear any man who happened to be born from a woman).
You women rock! You don’t need this weeping Atila to tell you how great you are, I can feel you all nodding, you already know that. I suggest that we men, the humble adorers of you wombs of love and life, that we love you strong and true and exclusively, with one and only one dignified and respectful high standard, I suggest that we make lots of love to you so you can be the vessel for the miracles babies to come through you, and I suggest that we use our brawn and ambition and devotion to keep you and our babies safe and nourished.
And then I suggest that we get out of your fucking way for a change and let you get down to business the way only a woman knows and can do. I’ll even learn to flip some eggs (hard) balance some books (impossible), and run a corporation that someday someone can admire. On second thought I’ll let you do that one. I’d like to stay home and love the babies that we are both so gentle and kind to, the sons that we value to cry often, the girls that we champion up on that tough little mound as queen of the universe.
If I do that beautiful goddesses, will you try and be gentle and kind to me and all little boys? It really would help a lot! Thanks from the bottom of the little heart that grew up in your amazing womb.
See you tomorrow
yourpersonalmuse@gmx.com
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