I am not a mom, and I don’t take the fact that I may or may not ever be one for granted. No doubt, children have a magically profound effect on our existence.
That being said…
During my first month of abortioneering, I was given two plastic fetuses—sucking their thumbs and labeled 11-12 weeks on their thick, fetus necks—by a protestor who stands in the alleyway with a basket and a handful of brochures regarding the anti-abortion, pregnancy center that moved-in on the other side.
Imagine having an abortion then leaving the clinic in a post-surgical haze only to be immediately harassed by a rosaried figure clutching a basket of dozens of plastic fetuses and a jab at your heart that their father will forgive you.
In my case, I can only imagine that abortion protestors are absurdly humorous people who are unable to conceive that abortion is a sacred (and deeply private) rite of passage.
I’ve kept the semi-precious (too precious to be viable) fetuses ever since. The first year, my sister and I played passive hide n’ seek with them. First, I put them in the cereal box so they fell into her morning bowl, and then I found them in my shoes, in place of a bar of soap, behind the dictionary on the bookshelf. They’ve become such a pivotal presence in my living room that friends acknowledge them when visiting. For several years, they rested in my sweet, stevia plant.
Right now, they suck thumbs atop a crystal bookend on this round, wooden table. My mate was rearranging the books recently and they toppled onto the table. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” He feared.
“Please don’t worry for them,” I said. “They’ve got an entire ludicrous movement behind them!” I kissed their eternal, half-brain heads, and set them back on high.
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