It has come to my attention that I have a hard heart. I knew it was probably a few sizes too small, but I was thinking that having children had maybe softened me some.
In fact, I think the act of pushing a child out of my vagina on three separate occasions has actually hardened me more, like some kind of prairie-living, butter-churning, cow hand’s wife from the 1800’s. They were tough people. Maybe that’s when I should have been born — in prairie times. Although, if that was the case, I would be the town’s token blind lady. If I don’t have my contacts in, someone literally has to take me by the hand and lead me from room to room.
I would not enjoy being the town’s token blind lady; I’m much too vain for that. I guess it’s for the best that I was born in 1979 instead of 1879, but I bet I could churn the hell out of some butter.
Anyway, because of my hard heart, when someone has a scrape or a hangover or the wrong flavor of Pop Tarts, I expect them to suck it up because, you see, I PUSHED THREE BABIES OUT OF MY VAGINA. Clearly you are not in that much pain, which means you are not near death, which means there is no need to panic.
After a few separate occurrences happened in a short span of time which brought my hard heart front and center, I started wondering what on Earth could have caused me to be so unfeeling when it comes to certain things. I have girlfriends who cry over pictures of animals. Why don’t I cry over pictures of animals?! When I see pictures of animals, I actually shudder a little.
When my husband is sick, I put him in a room by himself and shut the door. My eldest child has had regular allergy shots for months and months. I don’t understand why he still cries and throws a fit. It’s been months. You know you’re not going to die. I don’t understand. Clearly, I would make a TERRIBLE NURSE.
I started thinking about what might have hardened me at a young age, and all I could come up with was the time when I was about 4 or 5 years old and a goose started chasing me when I was outside with my dad. I don’t think he meant to, but my daddy reached out and slapped that goose dead. Kilt it dead right in front of me.
I don’t talk about my dad much on social media because my parents are very private and I think the idea of the internet freaks them out big time, but I have to say … my daddy slapping a goose dead when it was after me taught me something very important: if you hit right, you’ll only have to hit once.
So, while I don’t have to churn butter or chop the heads off chickens before sunrise, I do have to tone down my demeanor so I can at least feign concern for these softies … I GUESS.