We are an award winning TV production company known for sensitive and respectful documentary television. We are currently working on a new series that will chronicle the challenges and triumphs of families or women who have unexpectedly become pregnant.
I’ve attached our flyer and If you, or someone you know, is a good fit for this new series, please reach out to us or pass our contact info along. You can also spread the word by posting our flyer to your bulletin board, to Facebook or tweeting it.
Evidently someone out there knows something I do not. Actually, my uterus read this over my shoulder (it’s old but still flexible) and collapsed back over on itself laughing. The ovaries overheard the commotion, got the story from the bladder, and double flipped off the world as they crawled back to the lazy hammock of pre-menopause. There’s wine there. They’re happy.
I am forty years old. I have two sons, one of which hit his teen years three weeks ago. The intensity of my squint at this computer screen could laser cut granite. My hearing may be better than most, but my joints sound like a middle school drumline. I am well past my childbearing interest. There’s a big ole’ “Road Closed” sign on the uterus. “One Way.” “No Outlet.” “Don’t Even Fucking THINK Of Parking A Pregnancy Here.”
When I was young a friend’s mom had a framed picture of “I’d rather be 40 than pregnant.” I remember thinking, “Oh dear god, no. Really? Pregnant would be MUCH better than ancient!” Fast forward 30 years and I’d rather be anything than pregnant. And this is from someone who was on all kinds of pre-pregnancy/pregnancy/miscarriage/post-miscarriage/pregnancy/yay-you-finally-have-a-baby email lists in the early millennium.
If I were to (god forbid, spin around three times, say a prayer, and spit) suddenly discover I had a bun in the out-of-warrantee oven, I’m pretty sure I would not be looking to get into a documentary. I can think of fifty things I’d rather do, and fully half of them involve a variation on walking into traffic. A goodly portion of the other half involve my husband and rectifying what would obviously be a failed surgical procedure that shall not be named but is what couples (read: men) do when they love each other very much but know they will kill each other if there is an unexpected third child.
Oh Interwebz, you know so much about me. You know I love wine, and cream in my coffee, and that I get stabby when there’s too long a stretch between warm, sunny days. There are eight years of Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Me right here on this site. But you totes got the wrong woman here if you think there’s gonna be another Chaos Baby. No no no no no no no….hysterical laughter….nooooooo.