Mother Earth on Being a Single Mom

It's hard to be a single mom. Especially if you're Mother Earth. No child support. Ungrateful kids. Can't our single mom just get a break?

Hello, humans. This is Mother Earth, as some of you English speakers call me. (My real name is a series of electromagnetic resonances undetectable by human ears, but whatever). I’m writing this because you’re really cranking up the aggression dial on the marginalized lately. Oh which ones? Pick a group. Time’s up, I’ll pick one for you. Single moms.  Maybe you don’t know this, because you haven’t sat down for the (on average) 3.2 minutes it takes to have this mind-blowing and/or enraging epiphany, but I’m a single mom. Yeah.

While your futile anger over movie screenings and the shift back to matriarchy rears its head, so has the constant shit people give me for my marital and parental status. They treat me like some sacrificial lamb then imply I don’t work hard enough and am mooching off the government(s). Yeah me, the earth. Giver of all known life, dear reader. I’m sick of it. Literally. You’ve been here for .0004% of my life and are already giving me a fever. So, for your sake, there are going to have to be some changes, stat.

Stop showing me ads for community colleges right after I google “single mom-planet resources”. Yeah they’ve historically been boons  for “women of my station”, but these are fake for-profit colleges that leave you with a lot of space debris and little atmospheric cover, knowhatImean?  Plus, I happen to hold all the degrees and knowledge. I’m freakin’ earth.

Stop pitying me on social media. “Wow, you’re probably so OVERWORKED.

Oops, gotta go. Frank’s gonna lose his shit if I don’t stock up on LaCroix. Regular tap is sooo gross, right? *disgusted emoji* “

If I see another post like this, there will be five more natural disasters this year.

No more setting me up with other celestial bodies or asking if I’m dating.

I’m happy by myself. Yeah,there’s just 2010-TK, that one asteroid in my orbit who sends child support and does nothing else. I do everything,  but I’m also not stuck in a co-orbital configuration with some planet who might undermine my parenting style and make me watch Dune with him.

I also don’t need more friends, so stop giving sad reacts to my posts and commenting with invites to single mom groups. There are 75 billion tons of living things on me, I’m not lonely.  Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, And Saturn all talk to me on the reg. Right now, when I’m not supplying you with all that LaCroix you’re buying Frank’s love with, I do what I want, when I want, and that’s listening to radio signals from distant planets or reading your books on my geological timescale. They’re adorable.

Stop slathering my skin with concrete.

And stop drilling into me like a lava cake, removing my joint fluid, then calling it progress.

Also,  I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING MOTHER! You’re not my children. The moon is in fact my one and only child, look it up. Some asshole planet you call Theus crashed into me, and boom.  The moon. Humans are  power-ravenous parasites living on my skin. I’m your unassuming host who’s ignored one too many undercooked meat warnings. You don’t call your tapeworm your child.

And to those of you pretending it doesn’t feel like the inside of an oven right now just so you can add to your hoard of shiny objects while circling the drain of life, think of this. A cold virus doesn’t avoid being nuked out of existence because it denies its fate. It can co-opt Yolanda’s healthy cell functioning all it wants, but once she takes that benny and actually rests, it’s over.

Cause who knows autonomy like Mamma Earth, baby? No one. And one day, after my fever peaks, I’ll be twirling human-free once again. It’s gonna be so nice and quiet. That’s really the best gift you can give any mom.


Emily Pate