Men, you’ll never understand.
You’ll never understand what it’s like to feel the emotional pain of knotted hair, smudged lipstick, chipped nail polish or that feeling of relief when you take a pair of high heels off after cramming them on for a causal twelve-hour stint.
Worse still (and good for you) you’ll never feel the physical and most agonising of labour pains or that painful first time you pee after delivering your baby.
Being a woman isn’t plain sailing. In fact, at times it’s shit. Let’s not sugar coat this. Being a woman is one of the single most difficult things a human being could do. The pain I’m describing is simply physical; where the hell do I start on the emotional shit?
That moment, you realise you and your best friend both fancy the same boy. Heartbreak. The moment you’re in the ladies with your girls and one of them, after consuming one too many Chardonnays (it’s always the same one), starts crying over the mess that’s her life; she hates her job, her boyfriend, her life, her self. And you want to shake her. Or worse still, smash her in the face and teach her a lesson. Not because you hate her, but because she’s being emotional as she can’t handle her vino (don’t cry around me when you’ve been drinking, I’m so not an emotional drunk). It’s not that I can’t emphasise, I can. I just struggle when girls blow stuff out of perspective.
Men just don’t understand. They don’t understand women’s emotional needs.
Yes I get emotional, very emotional in fact. Mostly over Harry. I marvel at every single little thing he does, like laughing or the fact he clambers over me on the floor, commando style and he’s still so little or that he tries to feed himself. Jesus I’m even getting emotional writing this.
My point is, is that I never used to be emotional over the stuff that mattered, I used to get upset over not being able to get my hands on a new pair of shoes that I wanted in four different colours or that my favourote blusher had been discontinued. Wayne doesn’t get this or the shoe thing. I was hugging Harry tightly the other day and Wayne was like, calm down, you’re going to smother him. If looks could kill…Does he not understand I carried this little being in my tummy for 9 months? Did he not feel every kick in my ribs and each belly flop? Did he not feel each and every painful contraction that ripped through my body? (No of course not, he was playing Champ. Maybe for fifteen minutes, but even still). Of course he didn’t feel any of those, but I did. And it makes me emotional to think I gave life to this beautiful little person.
So if I want to get all emotional every so often, then I will. Because I feel as a woman, it’s my prerogative to get emotional (not over crap mind you). These days I feel, being emotional is who I am. Harry will never know me than anything other than Mummy; Mummy who cries at everything he does, how insignificant it maybe to the mere observer.
I think that it’s nice Harry will never know the emotionally reticent being I was, before his Dad won me over and before the little munchkin came along and emotionally melted me – hindsight, such a wonderful marvel.