With Apologies to Shakespeare
This has been a constant subject of conversation lately, and while I would love to write an astute and pithy article about marriage and motherhood, and the disparity of opinions between my married friends in their 50s (married 20-30 years) and my married friends in their 30s (married 5-10-15 years) in regard to what *I* should do (you will be surprised who tells me not to do it!) (And my parents NEVER enter in an opinion. They respect my freedom to make mistakes and winning choices both on my own)... the case is, at the moment, I can only present this light hearted monologue which I discovered in a little known {haha} play by some obscure Elizabethan scribe...
With apologies to Will, here it is...
SCENE 1. A Room at The DaySpa
Enter Single Gal in long term relationship.
SINGLE GAL
-->
With apologies to Will, here it is...
SCENE 1. A Room at The DaySpa
Enter Single Gal in long term relationship.
SINGLE GAL
-->
To Mother, or not to Mother: that is the
question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The diapers and showers of outrageous fertility,
Or to take arms against a sea of hormones,
And by opposing prevent them? To get pregnant leads to sleep
No more; and in losing sleep, say we also end
The mani pedis, dates, and the thousand nights out with friends
That woman’s flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd- To avoid impregnation, to sleep-
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of solitude what dreams may come
When we have shuffled through this fertile window,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of still impregnable life…
For who would bear the whimpers and screams of babes,
The spouse's wrong, the in laws’ contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the doctor's delay,
The insolence of school and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When she herself might her quietus make
With a good massage? who would weight gain bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary 40th week,
But that the dread of something worse than swollen feet,
The undiscover'd nursery from whose bourn
No singleton returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those bad dates we have
Than fly to solid partners and crying babes that we know not of?
Thus family, biology, hormones and men do make mothers of so many;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of morning sickness
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The diapers and showers of outrageous fertility,
Or to take arms against a sea of hormones,
And by opposing prevent them? To get pregnant leads to sleep
No more; and in losing sleep, say we also end
The mani pedis, dates, and the thousand nights out with friends
That woman’s flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd- To avoid impregnation, to sleep-
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of solitude what dreams may come
When we have shuffled through this fertile window,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of still impregnable life…
For who would bear the whimpers and screams of babes,
The spouse's wrong, the in laws’ contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the doctor's delay,
The insolence of school and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When she herself might her quietus make
With a good massage? who would weight gain bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary 40th week,
But that the dread of something worse than swollen feet,
The undiscover'd nursery from whose bourn
No singleton returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those bad dates we have
Than fly to solid partners and crying babes that we know not of?
Thus family, biology, hormones and men do make mothers of so many;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of morning sickness
And enterprises of great pith
and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the little black dress, size 4.
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the little black dress, size 4.
