Premesso che nutro una forma di perplesso rispetto per chi è così coraggiosa e ottimista da mettersi a fare figli, avrei un paio di cose da dire su chi li fa e se ne ornaments as if they were medals.
not they all do, but I've seen it all. Beautiful women, capable, intelligent, normal, or even medium-ugly, more or less educated, career or not. Women of all kinds, in short, that overnight calving and develop a superiority complex towards flamboyant all childless. "Look what I made!" is the proud phrase that exudes from every cell of their body, when in public with their little replica. And I mean, for heaven's sake, to think of it is also its effect: part of you, with a small external contribution, it starts to breed with geometric progression, takes own life feeds on your blood (which is the part that I always found it very disturbing in mammalian reproduction. How much more do you want to put the eggs and cool covarle?) And giving you unparalleled moments of nausea, acidity, forced urination, gastric reflux, lack of breath and insomnia alternating with lethargy, after nine months it is most often ten, if not you decide to remove it from a cut above the pubic area, you Scassa Gina to exit.
It's a little 'Alien, but I certainly would have left proud.
However, since then, they, their mothers, have something more, something you less. Even if you're the one coming out, and those who are in their house even if you share for the sink with a backpack than seven pounds, and they go shopping center less than seven kilometers away, with an SUV full of car seats, strollers, diapers, umbrellas, BOTTLE, pelouchini, even if you have normal conversations, more or less deep, but all quite understandable and even some interesting, and for their good 18 months from event to talk about 75% of hunter-lullabies baby food, using precisely these terms, with anyone who is not fast enough to escape the ... of course, who has lost something, it's you.
With a European average of 1.6 children per woman of childbearing age, breed, here in the west, is no longer a biological imperative. E 'became more: a whim, a fixed one, a necessary complement to the maturity of a woman, a missione, un gesto eroico, una conquista di status, un investimento. Un sacco di cose complicate, ma soprattutto una condizione che, con poche eccezioni, non ammette ironia. Né critica. Specialmente in questo paese e in questa religione, che ha fatto della madre la via più breve per arrivare nelle grazie del capo*, inventando il culto della Madonna. Roba che lo Spirito Santo potrebbe intentare una causa per discriminazione sul luogo di lavoro. Ma divago...
Torniamo alle madri. Con precedenza per le compagne di genere, ma senza escludere i maschi, le donne che hanno prodotto un mini-umano compatiscono chi non l'ha fatto, specialmente se ha scelto di non farlo a causa di una spiccata mancanza di attitudine for relationships with the mini-humans.
"I pity you. If you do not like children you will never be in contact with the child in you." I said to a friend's house that they would never be invited, the mother of a goblin troll-mixed-up less than a meter, or doped up to the sugar, sped, shouting and wreaking havoc without the compassionate mother intervened. "Oh, well, we're even then. I pity you that you have ordered you to spend your days with this monster." Not just because we came to blows between us there was a heavy marble table, far off.
"I pity you. If you do not like children you will never be in contact with the child in you." I said to a friend's house that they would never be invited, the mother of a goblin troll-mixed-up less than a meter, or doped up to the sugar, sped, shouting and wreaking havoc without the compassionate mother intervened. "Oh, well, we're even then. I pity you that you have ordered you to spend your days with this monster." Not just because we came to blows between us there was a heavy marble table, far off.
Another was that the jubilant screams of the children were the sweetest music of creation. Nothing else compares, no nightingales, or lapping waves, rustling of snow, or simmering soup. And who was trying to adjust the volume of children in public places frequented by her, like beaches, did not understand the poetry of life. Who cares if others had even paid an umbrella and a deck and maybe wanted to do a post-prandial nap. She and the fruits of her womb were more important.
Then there was doomed to martyrdom, which he repeated like a broken record that "unless you have a child can not understand (I can not, but most do not want), that" we must sacrifice "(what? a prescription? a religious precept? But it's there, like say Ghedini), which "I've never given stuff packed, I went out at dawn to go to the market to buy fresh stuff, and I passed the baby food by hand!" (Fico. is useless, since now it is pre-teen, the girl stuffs himself with anti McDonalds).
And then there's the sneaky type. What sounds like a normal person who has children: if not pull more than a tot, does his best not to bring them up like little Pu Yi, if you leave for more than three hours should not be in withdrawal symptoms filled with guilt, but ... after all, do not allow the world to forget How long tiring breed the next generation, and pre-ten-de! the same respect one has for a missionary (even secular) who has devoted their lives in service to others. If anyone dares to belittle the spirit or the mother figure, the mask of normality falls to the ground as the veils of Salome at the end of the dance. Stiffens his neck, his chin juts out, the fists are closed and lips quivering drops the fateful phrase: "Being a mother is not a walk!" Do not mess around on the missionaries, for god! Forgetting that motherhood is (or should be) a choice and that platoons of psychoanalysts still earn their living by remedying the failures of relationships more or less sick with the parent, the parent much more popular in the ranking of messy relationships.
The other day a friend published a note a matter of human geography that made me think: the African average of children per woman of childbearing age is 5.8. For those 5.8 children a woman can not even hope for African survival beyond infancy. What seems to me a problem a bit 'more serious than the respect due to the efforts which a Western woman for his son 1.6. And do not use the plural advisedly: 1.6 is not even 2! It would take perhaps a little 'sense of proportion, before starting to print and distribute the holy heart of Mary pierced with its photoshopped image, it just smells a bit' of irony in the air.
* I will not go into here in the discussion dell'antitesi alla figura della madre, la "ballerina prezzolata", e dei suoi rapporti con il capo. Ancorché mi si dice che le due figure possono occasionalmente coincidere: anche le ballerine prezzolate fanno figli...
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