I originally published this essay at Neutrons Protons, an online literary humor journal, on November 7, 2017.
In case you didn’t already figure it out from the kazillion photos of my child’s face plastered on my Facebook profile, I’m a mother. That’s right, I birthed children out of my vagina, and my breasts have done double-duty feeding a human and sexing it up with my husband on alternate Saturday afternoons during naptime. And because my nonprofit career of wiping poop out of my children’s butt holes and rocking screaming toddlers wasn’t relaxing enough, I’ve started a business from home – like the badass that I am.
But please don’t deign to call me an entrepreneur. The word entrepreneur might recall images of white men in three-piece suits who spend their days pitching tech start-ups and world-shaking social media platforms. You might imagine an entrepreneur hobnobbing with investors in Silicon Valley, and afterward sipping martinis out of a crystal carafe with co-workers to celebrate the fact that someone just dropped the GDP of Malaysia into his bank account. You might envision an entrepreneur gazing over the Bay from his corner office, leaning back into his leather chair and adjusting his wireframe glasses for a short nap before a million-dollar presentation — unlike his childbearing wife who spends those same hours on her hands and knees picking up Cheerios that have been ground into the carpet and trying to communicate with a non-English-speaking dictator. No, I insist: call me a mompreneur. That way, I’ll remember my place in the world: the sex who shares her tits with a bald, drooling mammal.