As of January 21, 2025, I will no longer be oppressed by my salary, retirement savings scheme, or my office kitchen with its free coffee and biscuits. Instead, I will have the liberty to live out my womanly dream of quitting my job, having babies, performing animal husbandry, and stuffing the windows and doors with towels when the topsoil is swept into a storm that blackens out the sun.
Thank you, President-elect Trump.
I am thrilled to escape the woke trap of a professional career with enough seeds left in my ovaries to keep me pregnant through the next few years before I become a barren husk in desperate need of hormone replacement therapy, which will be outlawed by men who know better.
While coastal elites “ride the subway” to the office and avail themselves of universal pre-K, I will be safe birthing babies by my pastel pink rangehood, soaking almonds in bore water, and researching crop rotation, because even the veratrine isn’t taking care of the stubborn cicada problem we seem to have out here on the plains. I will reclaim a woman’s place at nearly the head of the family, up on a sort of rusty pedestal that Plan B can never reach.
Severing the bond with our precious babies and dumping them in the lap of qualified, caring nursery staff is a ruse to end breastfeeding. Never again, under the eternal reign of President Trump, will anyone tell me I can’t nurse the steady stream of babies I conceive via the head of household’s sex schedule. Yes, when the crops fail due to accelerated climate change, I may have trouble eking out enough drops to feed the babes. But I trust the men to handle that problem if and when it arises.
As my babies and I cross the divide in our caravan in search of arable land with rags covering our mouths, I will remember the people who made it possible: the wives brave enough to carry their nurslings into the voting booth and the men who said we were allowed to vote as long as we voted for the right guy.
From the road out of the hellscape I called home, I’ll gaze back toward the smudge of dust where I had a pantry full of lovely Le Creuset pots. I’ll look around to count my children (because when the visibility is poor, I sometimes lose count), and I’ll find I am eight times—wait, no—nine-times blessed.
