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Broke Wife, Big City
Rage against
the green bean
By Aprill Brandon
As someone who was born into a loving family that lived in a prosperous
country during a fairly enlightened historical period, I have rarely
had to use that most basic lizard part of my brain. You know, that
section of the human mind that is devoted entirely to mere survival.
From the moment I was born, I’ve always had shelter. I’ve always had
clothes on my back (even if those clothes were all neon from 1985 to
1988). I mean, I’ve never even really had to worry about where my next
meal is coming from, let alone had to hunt or forage for my food (which
is good because I have a suspicion that cheese, the main staple of my
diet, doesn’t grow naturally in the wild).
Hell, I’ve never even been in a physical fight, unless you count the
endless Thunderdome sessions I had with my cousins growing up, which I
don’t. Sure, we may have legitimately been trying to kill each other
but none of us had the upper body strength to actually do it.
So, you know, it was all good family fun.
But then I became a mom. And when you become a mom, that primal part of
your brain is constantly lighting up like a Christmas tree. Actually
even before you become a mom. During pregnancy, you turn downright
feral at times. Or at least I did. We’re talking “hunched over and
devouring a steak with my bare hands while growling if anyone else got
too close to my meat” level of feral.
I mean, we’re talking “striking out at anything that is a perceived
threat” level of animalistic behavior.
And then there was the heightened sense of smell, which allowed me to
tell which bushes other pregnant women had peed on within the last two
weeks.
And when your baby finally is born, it only gets worse. For example,
take how I reacted anytime someone else tried to comfort my screaming
newborn. That sound, those piercing, stabby cries that are like throat
punches to your very soul, should have had me overjoyed that someone,
anyone, would be willing to take over for awhile (especially
considering newborns like to breastfeed every 13 minutes and my body
was still recovering from the gaping exit hole they slashed in my
abdomen because my darling fetus thought the original exit was beneath
him).
And yet, the maternal animal in me couldn’t bear to not be the one
comforting him. It took everything I had not to rip that kid away from
the nurses, or from my husband, or from both of our more experienced
mothers when he was crying and scurry off into the corner with him like
Gollum holding his precious. Because it was actually less painful to
have an infant screaming in my face than to hear him crying in someone
else’s arms. I just HAD to comfort him. HAD TO. My lizard brain
wouldn’t let me not do it.
(Luckily this feeling passed quickly and by the time he was
2-months-old I was practically begging any stranger who had at least
one arm and was not currently murdering anyone to hold my hysterical
wailing BANSHEE for a FREAKING second just so Mommy could eat her
sandwich WITH TWO HANDS FOR ONCE).
And then there are the lightning quick animal-esque reflexes that
suddenly appear because nothing in the universe moves as fast as a
message from a mom’s brain to her hand to “stop the baby from eating
that firecracker.”
But nothing, NOTHING, brings my cavewoman brain front and center quite
like when my now one-year-old refuses to eat the food I give him. I was
actually shocked the first time I felt the rage building up inside me
as he spit out green bean after green bean. And the more he resisted
the food, the angrier I got. It got to the point that I was actually
shaking and had to get up from the table and walk away.
Because, see, when you’re a mom, you only have one prime directive and
that is to feed your children. (And judging by how my mom still stuffs
me with food, this prime directive never goes away. Although, by the
time you are grandmother, it has morphed into “must feed everyone
within 500 yards.”). So, while the modern, logical part of my brain
knows that this is just my son being a picky eater, every fiber of my
cavewoman self is internally screaming “EAT IT! EAT IT NOW! OR YOU’LL
STARVE! YOU’LL DIE! EAT IT EAT IT EAT IT! EAT ALL OF IT! AHHHH!”
And I know it’s only going to get worse the more he grows toward
toddlerhood (the official toddler motto: “No! Icky! Poo Poo Head!”).
So, I guess the only thing left to do is buy a leopard skin unitard and
a gigantic Nerf club and fully commit to this new role. Because he will
eat those green beans.
Oh yes, he will.
Oog. Ugh. Grrrr…
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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