Your mom is a narcissist!

 Did your mom give birth to you? She didn't? Well, uhh, what the heck? Stop making it awkward for all of us here and take your leave.

If you're a product of a hysterical pregnancy, a scare for the figment of the imagination, my deepest condolences. I respect your decision now that I have experienced life with all its commotion.

The fact that some of you are rolling your eyes at the sheer mention of the term "gave birth" shows how we have grown weary of this old antic. The "I gave birth to you" card. But hey, it is a hell of a card to play, isn't it? Because well, it's true. Even if your chunky physique or gargantuan cranium (which is a pretentious way of saying "heyyy, big head") begs to differ, you were given birth to. Yay! Now go bask in the sun, champ, and take this article with you.

(Reminder: Get back inside, please. Your unmoisturized back is unpleasant to see.)

So, childbirth, huh? What's up with that? It's quite the experience, or so I have heard. I have mostly consulted men on the matter (so take this with a grain of testosterone). Maybe it isn't as bad as they made it out to be. Or is it?

Let me acquire an adult. Please stand by.

Ah, yes, it's true. And I have gotten an earful for questioning women mid-labor. Whenever this topic is brought up, there is an awkward silence from everyone except the mother in the setting. As the rest try to avoid eye contact and not look directly at her vagina, she proceeds to recount the gruesome details of giving birth with teary eyes. The said details sadly never include the panty-dropping incident. And I must say, leaving those juicy details in the beholding of the listeners is a risky bet to take, considering that some of them haven't felt the touch of another human being in years. If that omitted detail involves holding hands or brushing elbows, they would be in, Cheaper-ing by the Dozen as we speak.

Let me continue before their right hand starts to itch.

As this figurative mother expresses her pain and misery (at least that's what it sounds like to the rest of us waiting for dinner with our empty plates in hand), the conclusion of this seemingly never-ending chronicle is always a radiant smile of joy, which I never quite understood. I get it, you have a child, but what about your poor cervix or your shattered pelvic bone? Are we going to gloss over that like it didn't happen? Was the son you regrettably named Binyam worth it?

Let's be honest here. Would the satisfaction of having a child still be the same if you had whisked him out of a whim? Pooped him out of the appropriate hole? I don't think so. I am off on the understanding of motherhood, as I haven't made any good use of my uterus yet, but I am fairly certain that I have a blog and you don't. So too bad, you're just going to have to listen to me.

The glorified pain of childbirth isn't just about having a child. Afterward, as some might have expressed, it's the heightened sense of motherhood it bestows upon you. It serves as a stamp of certification, a granted ownership of this underdeveloped primate, an asset that you can dangle in family gatherings.

Listen, I am in no way discrediting the joys of having a child or parenthood, but I take issue with the idealization of childbirth, particularly by those who have experienced it firsthand - namely, mothers.

The sense of ownership stems from the belief that giving birth somehow makes one a more legitimate parent. So that somewhere down the line, when the forsaken Binyam brings another child out of wedlock, you can cry and very loudly rue the day you gave birth to him, given that YOU sure did! Or in the rare occasion of this same son becoming a straight-A student, you can pat yourself on the uterus and claim that you created this, taking all the credit for his accomplishment. Either way, it's all about the act of giving birth, and awfully a lot is attributed to it. The "I own this thing" mentality isn't a feeling you can shake off if you literally did own it, which is a slippery slope toward developing a narcissistic attitude.

For those of you who are uncomfortable with the idea of linking motherhood with narcissism, feel free to add your dad into the mix as well. Whew! There is your sense of relief.

And while you're at it, before your sense of comfort fidgets off, have you ever wondered why your parents love you? I would argue that most parents love their children, but quite frankly, they don't actually like them and they don't have to. Go ahead, ask them. I dare you. I would say if I were cruel, but I will be generous enough to let you just ponder on this information instead.

Your parents love you because they have to. We are all offspring of some unfortunate people. They have fallen into our entrapment. So even when we are a hassle and just quiet a nuisance, they had to high-five themselves through it. Most of us didn't want to grow up and be a disappointment to our own selves discreetly, but we would much rather drag these poor souls into our shenanigans. As you show them a dance routine you have practiced for a year, hoping to distract them from the third C you have received in a row, or as you introduce them to your imaginary friend Timmy while they nod in amusement, planning your third christening, they are doing the humanly impossible thing to do: loving you.

As they stumble upon this learning, the second wave of narcissism kicks in. "How am I capable of loving this trash of a human being that I call a child? I must have extraordinary skills." Or so I have read while snooping through my parents' diaries (co-signed by Granny, the IT girl).

I am not associating the aforementioned takes with actual narcissistic parental abuse. (If that's the case for you, please stay well and find the support that you need.) None of the "tendencies" that I previously expressed from parents should be imparted on you. It shouldn't stop you from releasing your second reggae root album or hinder you from accomplishing your biggest dream of being a puppet master.

I am simply shining light on the objective truth that parenthood, or being a mother especially, is inherently intertwined with some narcissistic ways. The feeling of it is undeniably there. Owning anything, let alone a human being, can do a hefty task on your ego. I myself have made it a daily ritual to assert power over everything that I have. I take the time to point at the cabinets in my vicinity, declaring that I made them and that they are mine. My next ritual is praying, of course. So, imagine me having a child. Not a good combination, I would argue.

You! Shaking your head in disapproval? Stop it! I know you are just like me.

The whole point is this: if your mother gave birth to you while your father...well, he was there loosening his strap for some reason, as if that wasn't what caused your existence in the first place...then they fed you. And for some of you, you may have been the very reason why economic inflation spiked right around the time you were born. They named you Binyam, which is indeed a fault from their perfect ways, but we can move past that. It's okay. They gave you affection, care, and love when they didn't have to. Because look at you! Wouldn't you think that these individuals wouldn't feel a high sense of importance in your life? That they wouldn't want a high praise for what they have done for you? No? Good luck with that.