Mother's Diary

Dear Diary,

Gosh, I wish I had fourteen children. Then I could buy that fifteen-passenger Hummer I’ve had my eye on for so long. I just couldn’t justify spending that kind of money on a luxury in this economy, but you can’t argue with necessity. What kind of horrible parent skimps on their children’s safety? Besides, there would be incalculable emotional benefits. This Hummer, unlike the false promises of the Subzero fridge and the Showtime Rotisserie cooker, could be the product that finally brings our family together.

Just imagine-- after a quiet Sunday breakfast of 32 eggs, a side of beef, and six gallons of orange juice, Junior, Humphrey, Harvey, Lefty, Whitey, Snake Eyes, Squishy, Ohno, Goodgod, Genghis Khan, Anti-Junior, Cherrypicker, Deadweight, and Eleanor, and I would all climb in the family Hummer and go for a joyride.

Maybe we would go to the beach where I could work on my tan while the kids built a sand castle. Fourteen unhinged minds with twenty-eight groping hands can really move some sand around. Though Squishy would have to hang back on the towel with me, on account if his sand allergy. And Humphrey is not allowed near California coastal waters until he’s eighteen. But, boy, we sure ate lobsters aplenty that night. First time the kids had a fancy dinner. They still had to share plates, but they were beyond thrilled just to be eating something that didn’t come out of a 30lb bag and wasn’t shaped like a bone.

Or perhaps we’d cruise Route 1 and stop somewhere scenic for ice cream. Of course, Squishy would only be able to have a cone, on account of his milk allergy. But he seems to enjoy gnawing on them with his tooth. And to think that quack dentist said all his teeth would fall out. Let me tell you, that tooth is going nowhere. Not even Anti-Junior could knock it out with his blackjack during one of his episodes. And I still open a beer on that tooth every morning before I give Goodgod and Deadwood their bottle. Which reminds me, I’d have to pack an extra six-pack for the drive (another reason to the get the Hummer—built-in state-of-the-art cooler) because the babies get really irritable when they don’t get their taste (they’ve been like that since they were in the womb) and, lord knows, they’re not getting mine.

Come to think of it, that Route 1 gets pretty curvy. I better let Lefty drive. He hasn’t had a seizure in weeks, so as far as I’m concerned, his epilepsy is cured. Or it never existed—just another conspiracy by that commie doctor trying to push his abortionist ideology on me, as though it weren’t my god given American born right to have as many children as I want. Every child is a blessing from Christ. Except Ghengis Khan. He really is evil. There’s just no mistaking that mattoid grin for anything but pure malevolence.

But I still wouldn’t have aborted him. I might have left him at the fire station once or twice, but he always finds his way back home. Unlike Whitey. Sometimes I forget Whitey in the grocery store or at the track and when I finally do a head count and realize my mistake a few days later, there he is right where I left him—frozen, eyes rolled back into his head, and white as a sheet—just like he always looks.

Oh, no (no, not you, Ohno—get back in your cage). I just realized how long I’m going to have to wait in line for ice cream with fourteen kids ahead of me. Normally, I’d be first in line, but I’ve been reduced to a slow limp ever since Anti-Junior thwacked me good in the knee cap with that blackjack.

Yes, come to think of it, life really would be hell with fourteen children. I should just be grateful for the thirteen marginally healthy darlings I already have. Maybe I simply ought to recognize how wonderful my family is and what an amazing job I do as a single mother, and then reward myself with a fifteen-seat Hummer.