October 22, 2009


I have a superpower.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about X-men. No, I'm not kidding. I think the deeper I sink into motherhood the more mushy my brain becomes. Although, for a legion of mutants, including a blue-painted fish-lady and a leaping toad-tongued teenager, this "comic" is a surprising brain-tickler.

My first X-men experience occurred last week when I sat down with a bowl of wok popcorn to view Wolverine with my husband. People get desperate for viewing options on this side of world, where English-speaking entertainment is neither plentiful nor good. Most of the movies for sale in movie stores here are pirated. What was my first clue? Probably the silhouette of someone getting up to walk out of the theater or the giggling of a person sitting near the pirate. Argue my moral fiber if you please, but you've got to take your cinema any way it comes around here.

That said, Wolverine was a great show. We followed it up a day or two later with the first Bryan Singer X-men movie, which was equally as good. I think I'm hooked. With all of this mutant talk comes the all-important question: if you were a mutant, what would your superpower be?

I thought about that for a few days, wavering between teleportation and an indestructible skeleton, before I realized, to my horror, that I am already a mutant! I am a lactating woman. My superpower is the ability to gush milk from my boobs. Oh the terror! Someone help me! I have mutated from a normal, evenly-shaped woman with one shirt size to a beverage dispenser with three different wardrobes and something like 12 different bras (depending on the age of whichever child is nursing at the time). But with the curse of mutation comes power. Sweet power. Power, which in my case, does not stop bullets or regenerate wounds, but sustains life. From my body flows liquid that fattens little legs and grows double chins. These two gals that arrived during adolescence are finally doing what they were meant to do. The world would have you believe that boobs are meant to spill out of the top of low-cut tank-tops, but the world is wrong. Boobs are meant to feed, to bless, to keep the human race rolling on.

They call her Storm, the one who can manipulate lightning, and they call him Cyclopse, the one who shoots the power of the sun from his eyes. Just call me Eve, the one who breastfeeds.