I (she/her) was drinking some non-cold tea with my penis-having domestic partner (he/him) the other morning when out of the blue he said: “You know what Babe? I’d really like for you to start using inclusive language when you refer to us semen exuders. I know you were raised to think of potential-ova-fertilizers as ‘m*n’ but you see — not all of the betesticled identify as such. And when you fail to speak accordingly, you risk causing us to feel excluded and unsafe. Could you please adjust your language?”

I was floored, and almost forgot to thank him for bravely sharing his truth. It had never occurred to me that non-women might feel this way! I contemplatively found clean socks and undergarments for my non-birthing co-parent, packed him an artisanal gluten-free lunch, and kissed him goodbye. I began my day’s domestic non-relaxation by making up the little bunk beds, thinking all the while about my bepenised life partner’s concerns. I helped my homeschooling Kindergartener (he/him) with his wholesome nature-themed crayon work and recalled many instances when I’d used terms like ‘b*y,’ ‘m*n,’ and ‘m*le.’ It was a cold and sinking feeling, finally coming face-to-face with my demons (they/them.)

I squatted to disinfect the bathroom tiles in front of the toilet and realized that my urine-spurting-outie-spouse must surely be right.

I prepared and served my physically-diminutive-growers their protein-rich luncheon which I then hand-mopped off the floor under the table. Scrubbing on my knees (again) helped me to humble my ego and I wondered: am I benefitting from uterine privilege?

I forced myself to go through the motions of building a complicated bi-level blanket fort, creating little towel beds for the stuffed animals.

After that was scattered everywhere, I cleaned it up while chanting edifying nursery rhymes. Then I delegated to the small-gamete-pre-producers a strength & character-building manual chore and sat down to read the non-prostate-owning-pre-adults their favorite gender-affirming story book.
I did my utmost to live up to the blessed role of birther/chestfeeder. But despite my best efforts, the small-bodied armpit hair non-havers were losing interest in my instructions and beginning to play freely. I redirected them to stay on task, but they persisted in veering off-course.

I could feel my patience wavering, and I am ashamed to admit…I stopped smiling for about 3-seconds. Of course I instantly regretted succumbing to hysterics. After all, I am consciously thankful I get to be a domestic-non-penis-having-parent full time! I am so lucky I don’t have to bother with money or property in my own name since my pentapod-partner-with-butt-crack-hair makes sure to let me eat a portion of the food I cook for everybody and live rent-free in the house I constantly clean! He’s amazing and I’m grateful to him because I don’t have to work.

After my little tantrum, the non-adults asked me where ‘D*ddy’ was, causing my adrenaline to spike. I took a deep breath and pleasantly admonished them: “You must not call that person ‘D*ddy’ anymore. He is now your ‘Non-Birthing Parent.’” I practiced with them until they could pronounce it, confident my marital-partner-with-a-fronthose would appreciate this. No pre-pubertal-biological-ward of mine would be permitted to use language that makes sperm-sprayers feel unsafe!

Just before my darling one was due home, I turned on a gender-neutral educational media program for the pre-fertile humans and slipped away to beautify myself. I applied responsibly created, 100% cruelty-free organic mineral pigments to my face and plaited my hair becomingly. Smiling, I hoisted my lactating torso-bumps into a sassy little wire-reinforced push-up chest-support garment. I was determined to make my hairy-faced wombless-backhole-spouse feel 100% safe and respected from here on out!

“Hello, Darling! How was your day, My Everything?” I sang cheerily when the sperm-shooting dick haver walked through the door. I warmly kissed him hello, helping him unload his laptop bag and hurrying to chill the beers he’d picked up for himself. He nodded at me and wandered toward the kitchen.
“I’ve started the supper! We’re having roast beef, garlicky smashed potatoes, and a red cabbage salad with homemade bleu cheese dressing. It should be ready in about an hour.” He grinned patiently, causing his push-broom mustache to flex. This reminded me that I was due to trim it for him soon, lest he start flossing it into his teeth again. Oh, the joys of caring for an adult impregnator!

“Sounds nice.” He said, pulling up an old bar stool I had painstakingly salvaged the previous week by decoupaging it with free mail-order seed catalog clippings.

“So, what fun little activities did you and the kids do today?”

Here it was! My golden chance to show my person-whose-external-genitals-disoncertingly-resemble-a-geoduck-clam that I genuinely care about his important feelings!

“Well, the small-non-adults-who-like-blue-and-must-have-short-haircuts scattered wheat straw over the hill. I’m really hoping we can get some grass to grow there.” I watched his expression brighten out of the corner of my eye.
Yes! He’d noticed! In the past I’d have called my two non-female pre-pubertal dependents “the boys” but those dark days were absolutely over.
I continued: “And the tiny-destined-to-be-domestic-and-decorative non-adults jumped on the trampoline with the goats! It was so hilarious.” I showed him the 50 staged pictures I’d taken. He glanced and grunted approvingly whilst I perkily recapped the beautiful day we’d had, all thanks to him.

“Babe, can you grab me one of those beers out of the freezer?” My tallywhacker-owning individual said.

“Sure, Lover!” I exclaimed, jumping up. “Oh, and Mrs. Hendricks (she/her) emailed to let us know that our eldest adolescent-dependent-who-is-good-at-math-and-likes-swords has made honor roll yet again! Can you believe it?!”

My shrinkle-dinkle scrote-toting boner-owner looked at me directly then, his eyes fairly popping with the unmitigated pride of an ejaculating parent. He reached out to me and tenderly took the beer bottle from my hand.

“I like that shirt.” He said, grabbing one of my blouse potatoes and giving it a proprietary honk. I put my arms around him and breathed in his faintly mushroomy/parking lot scent with delight. I do believe I’d finally managed to make him feel safe.

“I love you.” I whispered as we lay together later that night.

“Huh?” He grunted, not looking up from his phone. But he didn’t need to. The pure joy of deepening my compliance with the wishes of all peen-bearing-belongers-to-the-sex-caste-overclass was plenty enough for me.

Fin

Lara Julian

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