By Melinda Munson

I have a magic uterus. It works like this. Can’t find your favorite condiment in the fridge? Go yell up the stairs. “MOM, WHERE’S THE KETCHUP?” 

I probably just laid down, snuggled onto my silk pillowcase that is supposed to prevent wrinkles — it doesn’t, watching the first few minutes of my favorite Netflix series. (I was going to read the book club selection, but honestly, I only attend for the food and the adult conversation).

Apparently, my magical uterus gives me the superpower to locate objects in a disorganized environment. Or maybe I just have the patience to shift through the contents. Whatever…

My magic uterus is often called on to do tasks that make even less sense. Like when the kids leave the kitchen where dad is standing empty-handed, come into the living room as I’m folding laundry, and ask for chocolate milk. (I don’t keep milk in the living room.)

 I recently discovered the power of speaking out loud the words “magic uterus” and it changed my world.

My husband wanted to kow why our son didn’t have clean pants. 

“My magic uterus didn’t get to that today,” I responded.

A pre-teen was snotty about washing a dish.

“That looks difficult,” I said. “Do you need my magical uterus to help you with that?”

He didn’t.

The pandemic has dropped the scales from my eyes about a woman’s work in the home. Even with a supportive, loving partner, I am weary of doing so much of the mental and physical toil of family rearing. I have let society and my own ideas of womanhood burden me with more than my fair share.

For about three weeks, I “magic uterused” my way around the house and it was lovely. Until the day my husband caught on.

One of the kids wanted help adjusting their bike helmet. 

“Dad’s better at that than me,” I said. “Go ask him.”

“Come here, honey,” he replied. “Me and my magic prostate can help you.”

Our poor children.