When Your Underwear Starts Talking to You

So, this is going to be a deviant post. Not deviant in the sense of obscene, despite the use of the word underwear in the title (I despise the word panties), but deviant in the sense of skewing away from parenting, politics, disability or poetry. What I want to tell you is that while raising three teenagers and one very disabled teenager is not a job for the faint of heart, it's okay to be faint of heart and maybe not entirely on board with the ordeal or even not happy about it. Happy. That's the operative word. I'm struck by the irony of our culture being a sort of tyrannical one in regards to happiness -- the pursuit of happiness. We can, evidently pursue happiness, or it's our right to do so. We can also choose happiness and are often told to do so. We are to be grateful, and happiness follows. Happiness comes from within, we are told, even after a long journey to pursue it. As long as you're happy is a phrase perhaps over-used, in my mind. I only want you to be happy is a parent's prerogative, over-ruled by the scowl of you. Today, I sat on the toilet to relieve myself after at least three hours in the family car, and when I'd finished my quick bodily duty, I glanced down to pull up my underwear and read inside the waist-band, in large letters Every Woman Should Be Happy Every Day.