A good friend of mine is in labor. Like, right now! It makes me want to be in labor too! Having done just that four times already, my uterus doesn’t agree. It runs and hides under the bed, shivering and peering out with gimlet eyes whimpering: “No, no, not again, you promised!”
My uterus is a banana.
In the books about women’s anatomy, the uterus is a pear.
Look it up.
Google: uterus. What do you get? Pear. Piriform, to be exact, which means pear-shaped. Try squeezing four football shaped babies through one little pear and whaddaya get?
(I apologize, my darling spawn, but yes, you were football shaped. Until you came out, and then you were post-partum-depression-hairy-eyeball-shaped. But you grew out of it and now, my darlings, you are lovely. You owe me… but you are lovely.)
I googled “banana shaped” to see if there is a cool scientific name for it, as there is for its cousin the pear. The first few hits were fascinating explorations of “my penis is shaped like a banana” which gave me a smug warmth in the very cockles of my heart after learning that our male counterparts also suffer from fruity malformations of the body. We share so little in the realm of physical suffering, it’s nice to know we have banana in common. They may not menstruate, but sometimes they got the banana.
Uterus the Shape of a Banana.
Unicorn. U. Ate.
I have a mythical beast prowling around in my procreative organs. No wonder I get cranky once a month.
My friend who is in labor right now teaches Child Studies. We all think it’s just great of her to gestate so spectacularly, just so her students can see the real deal. (I suffered through reading the Twilight series for my classes, but that sacrifice pales in comparison.) Unfortunately, my friend is an absolutely gorgeous pregnant woman. A poster-child for child-bearing. Glowing, from day one. I would have been a much more contraceptive-friendly example. Bulging, weeping, oozing, bursting forth from seams and hips and all areas where bursting forth is not pretty. If teens today could see me pregnant, condom sales would skyrocket.
But sadly (my Love’s eyes bulge, ‘whaddaya mean sadly?’), my big-fingered buddy Dr. Garry took care of that little worry for me. Thanks, Gar.
In Child Studies over the last few years, I have been invited to speak to the Youth of Today about my own child-bearing experiences. It is always fun. I draw pictures. I gesticulate. I use politically correct language and thrusting motions. I waggle my stretch-marked flaccid belly. I admonish them “Don’t have sex!” and when they titter and laugh, I adapt as all good teacher do and admonish instead: “Use condoms!”
More belly waggling ensues.
I have little else more profoundly unsettling in my repertoire of Safe Sex Lesson Plans than the belly waggle.
This is where we must once again question the effectiveness of the Flipped Classroom video lecture. Picture if you will, video images of the belly waggle. Dubbed of course, with insightful and pedagogically-sound factoids relating to the processes of gestation, the growth of the fetus, the potential for and hereditary nature of stretch marks… and the very real possibility of unicorns prancing around in your nether regions… which you will then blog about so that four thousand people will know that your belly is the most un-sexy fleshy region on the entire planet, complete with soundtrack (preferably by Chris deBurg. I always loved a good Chris deBurg moment) and the use of those cool marker things that let you write on glass while some incredibly competent techy person is filming your pedagogical marvel while not making snorting, hooting noises in the general direction of your waggling belly…
Am I still missing the point of the flip?
(May I point out that yes, four thousand people read my blog. Which is abso-fucking-loutely awesome! How many books have I sold? Ten. Not quitting the day job just yet!)
What I wanted to say is that I really enjoy talking to the Child Studies kids. I teach English and Art, so the belly-waggle is oddly inappropriate in those classes, and one must be allowed to practice one’s skills if one is to keep them up to snuff, after all. The kids are extremely receptive and kind, and only occasionally are able to look me in the eye in the hall after one of my more spectacular talks.
Don’t get me going on hemorrhoids.
I had to google how to spell that, by the way. I think I need a video. Can someone please make me a hemorrhoid video, so I can remember how to spell it? And something about condoms. What was it about the condoms?
Update: Welcome to the world, after sixty hours (!) little Levi Michael Swim 🙂