Sunday, May 13, 2012
Happy Mother's Day
Being a mother is almost as easy as fatherhood, with the exception of the whole eight-pound-or-so-bowling-ball-shaped human that claws its way into the light through the only available orifice at the end of nine months of vomiting, aching back and swollen leg and stretch mark thing. Moms have the rep for being the be all and end of child-raisin', with the dude counterpart relegated to role of sperm donor and, if he hangs around long enough, convenient erstwhile playmate and intinerant fishing instructor before being banished to his man-cave for the balance of his existence as a pseudo-bachelor, all the while writing checks and hardening the arteries.
Part of why these roles developed is evolutionary, of course, being that men aren't biologically predisposed to providing three squares to their progeny via fat bags loaded with yummy boob-goodness. Lacking in inventory of this crucial equipment, men instead must hunt, gather, forage or knock over the 7-11 in order to keep those baby-manna dispensers loaded and bare. Naturally, woman take advantage of this weakness and claim the offspring as their own, solely. My dog is much the same way - for a biscuit or the potential for same, based on prior results, he will follow me off the edge of a cliff. Children, interestingly, are about the same.
So when Mr. Man is off strangulating chipmunks with his bare mitts so that Junior's mama has that part of the food pyramid satisfied, he is also distancing himself from the direct upbringing of the little tyke - or tykes, plurality preferred by craftier moms - and mostly immediately becoming a memory of funny hats and farts. At the same time, the succor mom, tightens her emotional death-grip until the poor little children give up and forget that without Papa, there would be no tasty earthworms for din-din.
Children have no debt to pay for their childhood, but point to one mother who altruistically believes this. Really? How about your Mom? Thought so. I told you they are crafty.
This also makes some kind of evolutionary sense since the female, being presumably more vulnerable to being eaten by a pack of veloceraptors, needs to shore up her survival gambit with a little help of the clone kind. Absent, probably eaten by saber-tooth squirells or something, male impregnator is no where near as reliable a labour force as dedicated self-produced humans when it comes to putting mutton on the table. And so, moms are in that unique position of having their children wanting to help out their MILF overload - that is "Mother I'd Like to Feed". Dirty birds.
The poor kids have little choice in the matter. Even in modern Western society where men and women are encouraged to be equal caregivers to their cutesy-wutsey little bundles of joy, it's still the father that's relegated to career track and the downtrodden, long-suffering mother who is forced to give up the quest for the glass ceiling. But it doesn't have to be that way. It is that way because women rule the world.
So, I've finally gone off the deep edge into full-on misogyny, you say? Dash it, forfend all and allay that thought. Let's think this through.
Moms make babies. They are then revered by their offspring. Those onesie-wearing cutie-pies, if male, eventually grow up to rule their respective tribes, whether their groups specialize in business or in government. If female, well, we know what happens there: moms get busy training the next generation of baby-makers in the skills needed to capture a hapless human male through the leverage of their long training in the mysteries of being a woman. The boys' club goes on to honour their indoctrinators by the furtherance of a patrician society that tilts the balance of social order in favour of the ball-less while simultaneously masking that favouritism by shrouding same with perceived inequality. Women never needed the right to vote - they already controlled the world with their va-jay-jays.
Still, from another angle, moms are pretty cool. They know that you like the crust cut off your PBJ, they keep the bulb in your nightlight running and they know that the best cure for a summer knee-ouchie is a grape popsicle. They also know that your dad won't actually raise holy hell when he comes home to your D in maths, but that she can use that as a prybar to wrench out your childish heart into her manipulative hands just as long as you play ball, kid. Yer poor pa would help you, if he only knew . . . but silence, when it comes to mom, is survival. You know, I know it: let's not kid ourselves.
Happy Mother's Day!