*Author’s note: The Iron Uterus is a defunct blog I briefly began and then abandoned in its infancy. I’d like to restart it here to address the ‘mother’ part of my blog. Reader beware – these posts involve the rearing of children and teens and all their fluids and foibles.
Rated M for Mom.

I have an alter ego. It surfaced the day some redneck monster truck sporting a bright blue metallic scrotum hung from his rear axle went screaming past and cut me off.

Since I’ve lived in farm-country Wisconsin my entire life, I’ve borne witness to many of these testosterone fueled displays. It’s bad enough when a pair of tennis balls is strung to resemble the all-important male ego, but now they’ve actually created a lifelike replica of the man-sack to hang from the collective vehicles of the Nascar and mid-life crisis hive mind.

Seriously?  Where exactly does one purchase truck-sized balls? What would be the significance of painting them blue? Because the a-hole driving the truck will never get a little action again ever if he forces the little woman to ride shotgun?  Yeah. That would be correct.

Nothing but joy comes from the male jigglybits when the creation of life is concerned. So of course they brag about it. But here’s a clue: You’re naught but a donor, Joe-Bob. Women do the heavy lifting of gestation long after your contribution.

The rage I felt at this redneck’s display of testosterone sent my own estrogen rampaging. I roared up on his rear-end and passed the SOB with more horse power than his shriveled brain bucket could ever imagine while I gave him the one-finger salute. Eat my dust, truck boy.

Because I don’t drive a truck with balls, and I don’t drive a mini-van.

Nope. I drive… The Iron Uterus.

I’m not talking some sissy Sienna or paltry Caravan. I drive a full-sized Ford Econoline tricked-out conversion van with eight cylinders. When I wheel into a parking lot, people get out of my way. Semi-trucks blink their lights to give me the okay to switch lanes. I have street cred galore, sans truck nuts.

Think about what the average mom drives and what we utilize those vehicles for. Mini-vans are inherently made to emulate the labor of childbirth as we spew spawn out their sliding doors to and from school and sporting events. Each day, we schlep a team full of kids. Each day we give birth many times, desperately trying to kick them out only to have them climb back in again and again. The birthing process never ceases.

It was the same with our mothers. The mini-vans of today were yesterday’s wood-paneled station wagons. Women have been saddled with the job of child transport from conception. The car industry has our numbers pegged. We are all Iron Uteruses in one form or another.

So screw your truck balls! I hope when my Iron Uterus rear-ends your pick-up, those blue balls jam deep into your soft underbelly where they belong you pitiful excuse for a man. You couldn’t carry my c-section scar, much less handle the birthing load I drive around each day. Sack up and run, ball boy.

The Iron Uterus is coming for you.