I Will NEVER Be My Mother

There is one sentence uttered by every premotherhood woman: I will NEVER be like my mother. This sentence is usually followed by how you will parent your children, and disdainfully proclaiming you would NEVER allow your child to *insert obnoxious child behavior here*. The sentiment remains throughout the first pregnancy as you flip through the parenting and pregnancy books as you pat yourself on the back for being the best mother ever as you pop your prenatal vitamins, avoid caffeine and other parts of life's toxic pleasures as you stuff yourself full of food you generally would not touch while not pregnant because after all, you are eating for two.

Then the baby comes and though sleep deprived you look at that perfect, beautiful dollbaby and continue to pat yourself on the back for creating such a perfect little healthy angelic looking creature. Then the toddler years come and you soon amend your no fast food, no processed sugar opinion flying out the side of the grocery cart. If it will shut the kid up and avoid the humiliation of the public spectacle of the two year old who desperately needs the lollipop and Sprite, you are more than willing to put your superior parental morality to the wayside. The ideation of the perfect mommy in her size 4 jeans two minutes after birth who always looks perfectly coifed at the park brings bile to the back of your throat as you look at your own snot encrusted tshirt, yoga pants and college sport baseball hat you stole from your husband on the way out the door to cover the perpetual bad hair day of chasing a toddler around and never getting to shower by yourself.

You begin to wear slippers out of necessity because the shrieking in the middle of the night often shuts off the lego radar you have during the day and you discover the pile carefully avoided in the sunlight is a very painful experience come nightfall. The shrieking comes in stereo the first couple of times that, like a dumbass, you step on the evil plastic empire. Between the child crying for their mommy and your own colorful exclaimation, it's amazing the parental perfection police don't come and take away your perfect mommy badge. It's nights like this that it starts to sink in that after birthing said child, the transformation into your mother begins to take shape. The full trauma will come in a similar situation, but the motherborg have not completely assimilated you until the full realization hits you.

Inevitably that realization comes when leaning over to pick up a toy in front of a full length mirror; the child walks up behind you and startles you. Yet you find that it's not the child that startled you, it's the reflection of your mother's ass beaming at you. The horror sets in. You stand and with your neck turned as far around as it will go, you examine that once perfect ass, that wonderful bubble butt, is now post child and all your mother's. The trauma of discovering you have mothers ass is far more than any woman can take. Quickly you run to the bathroom and strip off your pants. You also have your mothers cellulite. Your mother's stretchmarks; but worse, you reexamine your ass in the mirror, confirmation! You are your mother. You have been assimilated and no amount of therapy can cure your mother's ass.

Don't worry, your mother had her mother's ass, and her mother had her mother's ass before her. It's nature's way of stripping whatever small ounce of sanity you once had away. We all become our mothers eventually, it's an inevitability. Take heart, eventually your own daughter will endure this traumatic experience. Console yourself with the visual musings that one day, along with your friends who have their mother's asses, can tip back their bottles of wine and cackle in delight. Enjoy your perfect ass now child free mothers; soon your tits will sag and you'll have your mother's ass just like the rest of us; even my rubber boobed friends.