I’m far more likely to have a supervillain name than a superhero one. It would be something along the lines of "Guilt Complex Queen." I have an overdeveloped guilt complex. You name it, it’s my fault.
- Baby’s diaper is wet? My bad.
- Husband comes down with the flu? I haven’t been feeding him enough orange and green veggies.
- Our Mozambique building project is out of cash? Guilty, your honor. I haven’t reconciled petty cash yet.
- People feel unloved and alone in the world? Guilty again. I love you all, but I have 400 emails and 89 blog comments I haven’t responded to, and I haven’t sent out Christmas cards in two years.
- Government’s budget doesn’t balance? Oops! I haven’t filed our 2007 taxes yet.
- World hunger still exists? I forgot to leave change in my car for beggars. Plus I left the beans out overnight and they spoiled, so I had to throw them away. Think how many people could have been fed.
- Global warming? I drive with the air conditioner on.
- People killing people for political reasons in Zimbabwe? I haven’t figured out the connection yet, but I’m sure it’s my fault somehow.
If it weren’t for God’s Magic Eraser, I don’t think I could live with myself.
But every time I look at baby Esmé, I am reminded that I WAS Wonder Woman. For nine months. Two years ago, my body did this amazing thing. A baby was conceived, and my body became its incubator.
It provided the right amount of padding, fluid, and nutrients. Even when all I could eat during the morning sickness phase were frozen macaroni and cheese dinners, baby survived. And even though I didn’t do my Kegels and never once got through the prenatal exercise DVDs I bought, baby thrived. When I ate doughnuts the morning of my glucose tolerance test and got a false positive, baby did a sugar dance and moved on.
And when D-Day arrived, my body performed exactly as designed. Six and a half pain-filled hours after membrane rupture, little miss Esmé worked her way through into the birthing tub and took her first breath. No pills, no drugs, no interventions, just my body and hers working in harmony. She was PERFECT. All 7 lb, 7 oz, 20 inches of her.
Every woman has her own Wonder Woman story. Esmé is mine.
I am Woman; hear me ROAR!