Bouncing Boda Boda Babies........

I just read where the average Ugandan woman gives birth to 7.1 children. Meanwhile, The United Nations has officially declared my uterus an International Sperm Free Zone.

That’s my rather sarcastic way of saying that even if I were lucky enough to find a man I’d WANT to father my children, it appears the old reproductive system has crapped out. The process began in the summer of 2004, when I lost all control of my moods. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sleep more than a few hours a night…..and was battling the most intense hot flashes ever recorded in human history.

Actually, the insidious creep of early menopause didn’t really sneak up on me, or anything.
I kind of expected it….my mother started throwing lamps, shoes, whatever was within her reach, during brief intense rages in her late 30’s. She could go from zero to crazy in about 3 seconds flat, and she always used to complain about being too hot. It could be a frigid Midwestern day, but Mama always needed a glass cold water and a fan set on high pointed directly at her.

When the symptoms started for me, I was only 42, in pretty good physical shape, with only a few gray hairs showing. I had most of my teeth, and I could still win a dance-off with a woman half my age. Never had a single thought about entering “That Time of Life.” But then I started waking up in the middle of the night tangled in soggy sheets. Or by the time I walked to the corner each morning, my clothes would be drenched with sweat. Or I’d be sitting at the computer at work when all of a sudden, I’d be convinced somebody in the next cubicle had positioned a blast furnace right behind me.

Even my freakin’ body odor changed. I mean, when you start smelling like the decaying corpse of a weasel, no matter how much perfume or deodorant you use, you got pretty clear proof that your body has switched over to auto-pilot. That feeling is scary as hell.

But what shocked me the most was the grief. I became obsessed with the notion that “The Change” meant I’d probably never give birth.

Now, I’ve always adored babies and children; when I was as young as 7 or 8, people used to watch me interact with younger children and say, “You’re going to be a great mother some day.” I’ve always had a strong maternal instinct that makes me goofy whenever someone under the age of 4 is around. I think I’m just fascinated by the concept of miniature human beings…they’re just so delightful to me, no matter what shape, size, color, or political affiliation.

The funny thing is that I have never, EVER wanted to be pregnant. Mostly because I haven’t met the man worth going through nine months as a parasitic host. I’ve never truly believed in the whole “pregnancy glow” thing, or the testimonials from women who say they never had morning sickness, or that they had more energy when they were pregnant, or they had just 15 minutes of labor and the baby slipped out like watermelon seed.

That shit looks painful, uncomfortable, and loooooong. If I could be pregnant for 2 weeks and deliver a healthy baby, sign me up. Otherwise, I’ll take a pass. Or so I used to think. But when perimenopause kicked in, it felt like an option being taken away from me. I’ve always pretty much done whatever the heck I wanted to do in my life and my career, but now the Universe was telling me, “Okay, time’s up. You waited too long, so it’s time to take away your power to create new life.”

That felt cold-blooded. I wuz ROBBED, y’all. And I started mourning. Big Time.

So maybe it’s a good thing I’m in a 3rd world country now, where women have 7 kids apiece. It kinda takes the pressure off....some sister over here has already had babies for herself, me, and a couple of other barren First World women. And I’m fixating on beautiful little chocolate drop babies, all swathed and tied to their mothers’ backs. I giggle every time I see a tiny brown head bobbling down the street. It’s amazing that with all the motion, some of them even manage to sleep while their moms are walking. Or perched on the back of a boda boda.

In an earlier post, I promised to tell you what a boda boda is, so here goes. It’s a motorcycle. And it’s the major form of public transportation in Gulu. There are hundreds of them, mostly driven by guys in their teens and 20’s. They all wear cool, reflective sunglasses, and no helmets. All you have to do is wave one down, it pulls up beside you, and you hop on the back.

Before I came to Gulu, I had never ridden a motorcycle. Last week, when the Land Cruiser was being serviced, I rode one to get back to my cottage. No helmet, no seatbelt, no protective gear of any kind. The only thing between me and a profound head wound, or at least a wicked case of road rash, was nothing.

I’m not going to go all Thelma and Louise here and say it was thrilling. I was scared silly. I wrapped my arms around the guy’s waist and held on for dear life. Every muscle and nerve ending tensed whenever we hit a bump. A bug flew up my nose. My teeth rattled. And I ain’t gon' lie…..I partook in some medicinal Johnny Walker Blue when I made it home alive.

But you should see the women of Gulu riding side saddle on those things, with their baby bundles bouncing down the rutted roads. It’s as natural to them as it was for me to hop the Metro train in DC. It’s like the kingdom of itty-bitty brown bobble-headed boda boda babies. It’s so cool.

And I’ve decided that even though I’ll probably never give birth, I’m pretty darned lucky. I get to travel all over the world and have amazing experiences. I survived my first ride on a boda boda. I can’t create life, but I can use the one I have to make a difference in the world. So enough with the grieving, already.