Motherhood is Ghetto

“a part of a city in which members of a minority group live, especially as a result of political, social, legal, environmental or economic pressure.”

It only takes my dad, on average, 5.43 seconds to tie his shoes. He’s been doing so for 50 years. That just means he’s an expert at the loop, swoop and pull knot. A motion that takes no thought — “it’s like riding a bike,” or “it tastes like chicken” — the latter statement finding new significance in my personal philosophy after being shamelessly used as a means to get this little teeter-totter-er of mine to put new foods in her mouth. These thoughtless movements, an infrathin of adolescence, subtly tying the care-free to the careful. Reminiscent of my most recently acquired least favorite, and usually unnoticed phenomena: reaching behind myself into the back seat to grab an object holding the potential energy to move to the other side of the car. The simple thought of twisting my organs around my spine leaves a permanent roll in my eyes. It makes my throat itch and my hands dry. Yeah. I don’t like it. But I do it, on average, 7 times a day. “Sometimes you’ve gotta do things you don’t want to do.” An ode to Beauty and the Beast — revisiting a phrase that’s older than the analog clock. I sure am doing a bunch of things I don’t want to, but, another tale as old as time: it’s worth it.