So here’s another TLC reality show I’m probably not going to watch: The Man With No Penis.
Don’t think I don’t want to. I’m absolutely dying to know how
The Man With No Penis Andrew Wardle managed to sex over 100 women even though, you know, he was lacking a bit of equipment most of us heterosexual ladies (and quite a few homosexual gentlemen, I imagine) feel is integral to the act. Still, I’m not going to watch because I’m boycotting TLC right now. It’s that The Human Incubator Show that’s got me going. My blood just boils every time I see a member of that litter clogging up my entertainment news feed. I want to read Gwyneth Paltrow’s diet tips, or how much one of the Kardashians weighs (it doesn’t matter which one), and not so much about Super Uterus.
Call me crazy, but I still cling to the notion that motherhood should be more about quality, rather than quantity. While the jury is still out on the two specimens I’ve produced (so far it’s been a mixed bag: the six-year old received another conduct report from her teacher last week, while the eleven-year old got placed in Advanced English Language Arts for next year), they’re currently taking up space on the living room couch, expanding their minds by watching a rerun of Jessie.
It’s that episode where Jessie writes the angry song about her boyfriend that winds up posted on YouTube by accident.
“Why do the girls on all these shows all want to be pop stars?” I asked while walking into the living to pick up the two
microphones empty paper towel rolls my daughters had abandoned there. Originally, there had been only one microphone empty paper towel roll, but that had caused fighting and tears, so I unraveled an entire roll of Bounty to keep the peace. The unused paper towels now resided in a messy pile on the kitchen counter, a way stop before they made their way into the trash as I cleared the counter before starting dinner. “How come no one wants to be an accountant or a biologist?”
“Or President of the United States!” my six-year old chimed in. She has an idea for a television show, starring herself, about the first six-year old President. I figure, why not a six year old President? Did you ever really think we’d elect a black guy in your lifetime, either?
Last night, as I helped her get ready for bed, she interrupted her teeth-brushing to describe an intricately plotted episode that involved a birthday party and an assassination attempt.
I would be lying if I told you I didn’t think about stealing the idea for a story I’m writing.
“Yes, or the President of the United States,” I agreed.
“That’s dumb,” my eleven-year old said. It’s not clear whether that’s her opinion of the President Show or the Accountant Show or the Biologist Show. She put her earbuds back in her ears and pretended not to watch Jessie.
So I have two kids, the same way I have two cats, and we used to have two guinea pigs, until Lulu’s sister, Nibbles, died quietly in her sleep a few months ago. That’s the way I want to go, with a tummy full of hay, nestled into a bed of
recycled repurposed wood pulp, my head full of dreams of giant carrots and slices of sweet bell pepper.
The point I’m making is that I like the number two, which probably explains why I keep writing blog posts about polyandry to the discomfort of my (so far only one) husband.
Of course, the number of children one has is a personal choice, and who am I to say if you should have one or two or nineteen kids? I had two because we live in a three bedroom house and the thought of packing up all our crap and moving it all to a bigger house has been enough to keep me on Ortho-Evra®.
If you haven’t made up your mind yet on the number of children you should have, let me share with you the best argument I can make about having at least two children. Here it is: “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe the Super Uterus just followed that advice to the extreme. She’s got 19 (and counting!) baskets out there, so perhaps she’s just playing the odds, spreading around her eggs. Maybe it’s got nothing at all to do with that “quiverfull” bullshit, and really it’s just a gambling habit she can’t break.
Super Uterus: I can feel it.Today is our lucky day. We need to have sex now. I know this next one will turn out to be the scientist who cures cancer or maybe the pitcher for the Cubs who finally wins game seven of the World Series.
Super Sperm: Um, I dunno. That last one you pushed out has crossed eyes and a lisp. I don’t see curing cancer or the Cubs in that future. What did we name it, anyway?
Super Uterus: Her. I wish you would stop calling them “it.”
Super Sperm: Ok, her. What’s her name?
Super Uterus: Who knows? I just call her “Cross Eyes.” I can’t keep them straight, I’m too busy with all these pregnancies.
Super Sperm: Tell me about it. I almost added that kid with the runny nose as a beneficiary on my life insurance policy before the neighbors came over with the police and snatched him back. Did you know he didn’t belong to us?
Super Uterus: You let the neighbors take Snot Nose?
Super Sperm: They had a DNA test! I couldn’t stop them!
Super Uterus: (weeping) I loved him the best!
So maybe every month, as the Duggars try to get knocked up again, as Michelle lies there after sex, with her feet in the air, saturating her cervix with Jim Bob’s little spermies, they’re just hoping that this next baby will be faster, stronger, smarter, better than the previous nineteen disappointments.
The Man with No Penis is scheduled to air on TLC in the US in late summer.
New episodes of Nineteen and Counting: the Story of the Super Uterus appear each Tuesday on TLC at 9/8C.
Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at freeimages.com.The photo of Debby Ryan comes from the Disney website and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.