Vicki Murphy - MotherFumbler

VICKI MURPHY

DELIGHTFULLY TWISTED TALES FROM THE CREATOR OF
motherblogger.ca

1 Stamps Lane, St. Johns, NL, Canada, A1E 3C9
WWW.BREAKWATERBOOKS.COM

COPYRIGHT 2013 Vicki Murphy

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Murphy, Vicki, 1978-, author
MotherFumbler / Vicki Murphy.
Delightfully twisted tales from the creator of motherblogger.ca.
ISBN 978-1-55081-440-8 (pbk.)
1. Motherhood--Humor. 2. Parenting--Humor. I. Title.
PN6231.M68M87 2013 306.874'30207 C2013-905898-2

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
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prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright
Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence,
visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year
invested $154 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country.
We acknowledge the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund
and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of
Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA.

FOR MOM AND DAD
FROM TURBO GINGER 1.0

CHANGING TABLE OF CONTENTS

Mothers are all slightly insane.
J. D. SALINGER , THE CATCHER IN THE RYE

Hell Hath No Fury
Like a Woman Torn

The day is all a blur now, thank god.

My husband unlocked the door of the house. The dog scurried in, excited to be home after two hours of waiting in the car in the hospital parking lot. She almost knocked the baby carrier out of my hand as she beelined to her food dish to see if the pork chop gods had visited while she was out.

Andrew put my bag on the table, my blood-spattered slippers sticking out of the side pocket, and collapsed onto the couch, exhausted, like he had just given birth or something.

The house felt different somehow. Emptier. Even though it had never been so full.

I set the baby carrier on the zigzag rug and gingerly sat down in the new glider. Holy shit, theres a baby on my zigzag rug! But why dont I hear cherub music softly playing in the background? Why isnt sunlight cascading in from the perfect world? And where the FUCK are the rainbows and butterflies?

The baby shampoo commercials. The books. It was all a lie.

Lets see.

My vagina is permanently screwed.

Thanks to my hemorrhoids, my bowel movements register on the Sphincter Scale.

Breastfeeding hurts like a son of a bitch.

Im still wearing maternity pants. Because my ass and abs didnt get the memo.

Maxs cry is the official anthem of Hades.

All my friends are at work wearing pencil skirts and making their dreams come true.

Im broke.

My dog is sad.

My husband has more compassion for her than me. Maybe he can fuck her from now on. Theres your doggy style for ya, honey.

And oh yeah, my dad is dying of cancer. Bonus.

How could I have fallen for the fairy tale? I work in advertising for frig sake; I tell fairy tales for a living. But I guess I wanted this tale to be real. To have just one perfect thing in the motherfuckery.

Now that I know the truth, what do I do? I dont knowwrite a book?

Heres your warning. If youre looking for one of those Chicken Soupfor the Soul books, youre staring into the wrong pot. I cant give you soup, but I can pour on the sauce. Hey, Im a mother; nobody said I was a lady. And who wants to read a book by a lady anyways? Well, my own mother. But besides herwho?

The magical land of motherhood you see on television and read about in books and hear about from crazy-ass moms with buttons where their eyes should beit doesnt exist. Motherhood is 50% amazeballs (Im not a monster), but 60% nightmare. And yes, that math is correct. It takes more of you than you actually have.

And holy mother, does it ever change you. Not just your lifestyle, but who you are, how you see the world. Its a total pantsformation. A metamorphosis that starts in your trousers. Think about it. Until childbirth, our vaginas are just there. Neatly tucked away, causing no trouble, subordinate to the supreme, ever-thinking female brain. But once a woman has given birthBOOM! The sleeping snatch is awakened, pissed off, enraged. Hell hath no fury like a woman torn.

Its like how men think with their dicks. From the moment they wake up, theres the ol pants soldier, standing at attention, guiding them through the day like a dangling carrot leading a donkey. Which is also called an ass. But unlike dicks, our vaginas are in pursuit of truth and justice. Dicks are in pursuit, but they just have one destination: someone elses undies.

So I guess you could say my vagina wrote this book, because the violence it suffered permeates everything I do and say and write. Like a soldier with PTSD, my GI Gina cannot shake the gory ghosts of war. It has seen too much. It can never go back. It is my red vadge of courage in a mad, mad world.

Actually,advertising is about revealing the truth.But sometimes ads focus on one truth (like babies are wonderful) and ignore all the other truths (like babies are chubby jerks) which can bemisleading.The truth is,only some truths sell shit.So those are the ones we see.

Dont tell your kids you had an easy
birth or they wont respect you. For years
I used to wake up my daughter and say,
Melissa, you ripped me to shreds.
Now go back to sleep.
JOAN RIVERS

Childbirth: Getting Screwed in
More Ways Than One

Having a baby is a double-edged sword. And feels like passing one, too. It blows your mindand all your girly bitsto smithereens. My son is out of diapers now and every time I look at his sweet face I see the business end of a medieval spiked mace headed straight for my crotch.

All you moms out there who had a textbook birth, who so sincerely apologize for our lesser fortune in the birthing suite, who answer no biggie when asked how was it? News flash: we hate your face.

I know youre mostly just a big ol fur burger, but use your head too. Is no biggie a wise choice of words to a woman whose baby just tore her a new one? That giant crochet hook must have broke more than your water, sister, because your common sense drained out with the amniotic fluid.