The only thing that gives me comfort in my distress is the knowledge that I am not the only mother to suffer this type of humiliation. Yes fellow mothers – you may call me Misery; and I do enjoy your company.
In what has apparently become my children’s unending quest to destroy my self-esteem, I have been forced to endure, yet again, an additional battery of quizzes concerning the oddities of my body. Now that the girls are back in school and getting reacquainted with scientific discovery and empirical processes, they have collectively redirected this rediscovery at an old target: ME.
I stepped out of the shower a few mornings ago, proud that I had succeeded in getting a work out done and finished my bath with the complete expectation that I was alone. As I drew the curtain back I saw Aya standing there, arms by her side and eyes transfixed on my emerging figure. Her face quickly went through several transformations, ranging from anxious anticipation, to concern, to perplexity. Without another word, she fled the bathroom.
Two hours later, Marshall clued me in to the cause of her distress.
“Aya came downstairs and asked me why you have so much hair on your hoo-hoo. I told her it’s because you’re so old.”
Remind me to kill you later.
“Oh,” I mumbled. “I see.”
I tried to conjure up a snappy comeback, but my wits failed me. Later in the evening, Aya all too happily informed of her latest discovery, courtesy of her father. Her words came out in rapid fire, so quick that it sounded like a single utterance. They were swift, cutting me to the core like an ancient samurai sword.
“Mommy, I asked Daddy why you have hair on your hoo-hoo and he said it’s because you’re so old. Mommy, you’re OLD.”
“Yes,” I conceded. “I am old.”
For the next few days, the girls continued their relentless assault.
“Why do you have so many bumps on your face?”
“Has your stomach always been that big?”
“Is that a booger in your nose? Are you gonna pick it out? It looks disgusting.”
The final attack came just yesterday morning , when after failing to take a shower before dropping the girls off at school, Nadjah called me on it.
“Mommy? What is that smell?”
It goes by many names, I wanted to inform her. Coitus. Intercourse. Biblical knowledge…or as I like to call it: Morning Glory.
“What smell?” I challenged her. “What does it smell like!?”
She squinched up her little face in concentration, as though searching the recesses of her memory bank in order to access some data to aid her in identifying the unfamiliar scent. Failing in this attempt, she remained silent.
Uh huh. Score one for me! I may be pimply, hairy, Black and yes – I may even smell funny – but Dear God I’m still gittin’ some!