Dear Michelle Duggar and That Tired Uterus,
Twenty? Seriously? You were “still counting” at eighteen and I thought that was insane. And now we’re hedging twenty, and “still counting?” Mercy Michelle. Mercy. Let’s stop counting already, if not for your sanity, then your uterus.
There’s a rumor swirling around that yours is a titanium uterus. Some kind of NASA-designed contraption with the tensile strength of airplane wings. But even so, 747′s with excessive flying hours are put to rest. Take heed, girlfriend.
In any event, I’m not here to judge, because as you say and darn well know, that’s for God to do. Though, while we’re on the subject, another thing you might want to ask Him to do: place a young uterus on backorder in the event that yours prolapses.
I know, I know I’m needling the issue, but my worry here is this: you have nineteen kids and if something goes really wrong in this pregnancy, (as it almost did on kid #19) the kids are without a mother and Jim Bob’s a one-man show.
And Michelle, you and I both know, even in Arkansas, a single man with twenty kids is going to need more than big white teeth to find a new mate with a fresh uterus to seed.
But actually neither your uterus nor Jim Bob are my most pressing concerns.
My real concerns are the following:
- I’m worried you’ve exhausted the “J” names, and all that’s left is Jesus, which might be weird for a white kid in Arkansas, weirder if it’s a girl. But you could always add an “a.” Jesusa is pretty, don’t you think?
- I’m worried that your book “A Love That Multiplies” (like rabbits), will sell millions and you and Jim Bob will make it your goal to match kids to book sales.
- I’m worried you have a bookie in Vegas (at the Bellagio?) and you’re wagering dangerous bets against your uterus.
- I’m worried that your free online recipes, your tater tot casserole and homemade laundry detergent, won’t make up for your more generous diaper contributions to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
- I’m worried that with twenty kids, you have eighteen middle-child syndromes.
- I’m worried that you’re faking your Snow White serenity and when the cameras turn off, you blow your lid and in a voice not at all your sweet sing-song, you tell Jim Bob off and send the nineteen dwarfs to bed so you can Tweet.
- I’m worried you’re no less addicted to having kids, than Betty Ford was to Smirnoff. The up side: you too can channel your vivacity and (dangerous) passions into a philanthropic legacy.
Those are my worries in a nutshell, Michelle. But who am I to pooh-pooh the joys of raising twenty kids?
I only have two kids. Thank God!—and Buddha, and my whip-smart mother for driving me to the doctor for my first packet of birth control pills.
Holy smokes. So I just did the complex math. Here’s where we’re at: You’re soon to have ten times more kids than me. Ten times more kids!
Ten times anything is a lot. Ten times the horsepower is a fast car. Ten times the brain mass is MENSA material. Ten times more sex would put PAL over the moon. But ten times the kids? Frankly it’s baffling and makes my birth canal woozy.
Anyway, I can send Jim Bob a note too; tell him to lay off. Literally. Take it in the closet, Jim Bob, or something like that.
We get it Jim Bob, your virility is undisputed, uncontested as far as I know. You’re God’s stud muffin.
Best of luck and many Amens to you and your uterus,