The show included a financial intervention of sorts with money guru Suze Orman, who has teeth that shine like beacons in the darkness. Orman apparently spends time with Dr. Phil because she has picked up some psychology tips, like, when you don’t believe someone, you should roll your eyes at her and keep yelling, “LIES, LIES, LIES! LIES, LIES LIES!” Octomom does seem to be truth-challenged. Because really, have you seen those lips? She looks like The Jester.
Okay, but anyway, we all think she’s a lunatic, right? Because she already had six kids, including one who has autism, and she sought out another lunatic who doubled as a fertility expert, and got herself knocked up with EIGHT MORE BABIES.
On the show, Orman accuses Nadya of being “addicted” to having babies. Uh, YA THINK, SUZE? Nadya admits that yes, she believes that she feels great pain from being the gorgeous daughter of a model who wanted her to model, too, but Nadya didn’t WANT to do that because it’s so SHALLOW, and what would people think? So she has been self-medicating by having babies. And at that point, I’m all, WHAT? NO! YOU DO NOT SELF-MEDICATE BY HAVING BABIES! I mean, I know that a child’s love can give you a total Ecstasy-like high, but when your daughter has washed her hair with Vaseline and your son is freaking out because you can’t draw a beluga whale and your baby has ghostly white shit coming out of her butt, honestly it can be more like a bad LSD trip. AND IT DOESN’T WEAR OFF! It follows you until the day you die, and if there’s a heaven, you’ll be “medicated” in perpetuity because you’ll be up there on a cloud trying to sip wine and read Barbara Kingsolver’s newest novel and your kid will be praying to you in hopes that you’ll return as a spirit and help convince the jury to find him not guilty. So please let there not be a heaven.
Having said all this, I must admit that when Suze Orman brought up the whole “addicted to having babies” thing, I cringed a little bit. Because lately I’ve been Googling the following terms:
– adoption ethiopia
– ethiopia adoption
– african adoption
– find literary agent
– easy fast chicken recipes
– adopt process ethiopia
In the very off chance that my mother is reading this: I AM NOT MAKING ANY SORT OF ANNOUNCEMENT RIGHT NOW. If you’re still feeling light-headed, go breathe into a paper bag.
Yesterday, I told Hot Firefighter Husband what I had been doing. He laughed hard enough that it brought on a minor asthma attack and then he told me to go take a nap. So at least one of us is protecting this family from my brain.
When we decided to have a third child, Husband said this to me: If we do this, if we adopt a third child, you have to understand that this is going to be your thing. This is what people will know you for. This will be your focus. It’ll be your thing.
So it’s my thing. And since it’s my thing, why can’t I keep doing it? I mean, besides the expense and the work involved and laundry and the idea of having FOUR KIDS BLOWING MY MIND! and the fact that having another living, breathing being in the house would turn the Pterodactyl into stone. Besides all that, I think it would be fine.
Am I addicted to having children? I don’t think so. But I do have sort of a yearning to bring another child into our lives, maybe a toddler whose hopes of finding a forever family are fading with each sunset. It’s true, too, that children fill a void, not just in Nadya Suleman and in me, but in all of us. Children’s needs trump our own, don’t they? Hypothetically, if what I’m missing is a level of achievement regarding my writing, and know in my heart that I need to pursue my writing with a more ambitious plan, one way to avoid doing that is to have another child. Because then when in the world would I have the time to write? Later, I can blame my family for my failure to pursue a career.
I’m not sure why I’m focused on Ethiopia.
But we’re not gonna have another child, and because I need a way to not think about it, I’ve been playing Scrabble on my phone with Hot Firefighter Husband, who this morning played the word S-A-N-G-A for 62 points. “WHAT THE FUCK IS A SANGA?” I screeched, because I hate losing at Scrabble.
“I don’t know,” he said cheerfully, and he looked it up. It’s an Abyssinian ox noted for the great length of its horns. It has a hump on its back. Also, an X-I is the 14th letter of the Greek alphabet, and a R-O-U-P is any catarrhal inflammation of the eyes and nasal passages of poultry.
And in this way, not adopting another child who may be in desperate need of our love is making me smarter. You might say I’m more A-D-R-O-I-T, which is worth just seven points unless played on a triple word space with the D on a triple letter space, in which case it’s worth 33 points. And that’s a total BOO-yah, almost as exciting as having another kid, but without the longterm commitment and with a much, much shorter buzz.