Friday, 4 January 2013

WHORRIFIC NEWS: MY BABY WAS SWITCHED AT BIRTH

whorrified, marie sutherland,
LOOKING BACK, IT SEEMS OBVIOUS...

 Daughter at left (who wishes to remain 
anonymous because her mother 
is clinically insane): Clearly mine. 

Daughter at right (who doesn't wish to 
remain anonymous because she is  
NOT RELATED TO ME ANYWAY!):
Clearly the Mennonite's daughter.





I have tragic news to impart. 
As some of you already know, I am the mother of  fantastically beautiful daughters. Every time I look at them I think, "Well, I'm done. I can die now and face my maker, secure in the knowledge that I have made the world a better place." (Much as my mother must think every time she looks at me. If only I had been twins; she'd be getting VIP seats in heaven for sure!)

Anyway, something happened over the holidays that turned my heart to ice ... which is a scientific miracle, since it was originally made of coal ... and now I am pretty much positive that my second-born daughter is not my natural child. She was almost certainly switched at birth in some horrible hospital mixup when I shared a room with A) a toothless Mennonite woman and B) a woman who told everyone who came to visit her that she was "from Bell Island, Newfoundland." (Even though, presumably, they would already know that, but perhaps this is some quaint Bell Island tradition, like drinking screech or marrying your cousin.) 

I must admit there've been moments when I had doubts about her parentage. (And I am not referring to paternity doubts, because it's always the richest suspect who's the dad. Whether he is or not!)
For example: 
* I am a Yeti-esque 5'8". My daughter topped out at a dainty 5'1.
* I have tangly, curly hair. My daughter's is sleek and bone straight. 
* I am a vile, hot-tempered drama queen. My daughter is a sunny, even-tempered sweetheart. 
* My favourite food is liquor. My daughter's favourite food is shoo-fly pie.  

Of course, all of those things could be chalked up to her father's weaker genes somehow trumping my superior ones. But then there was a blood-chilling incident when the truth pierced me like a laser and I knew. I just knew: This cannot be my child. It happened when she and her husband came to visit during the festive season. Naturally, I offered refreshments.

Me: I bought some champagne for us to toast the season!

Daughter: Oh. Maybe I'll have a sip.
Me: *What is this 'maybe' of which she speaks?* Ohhhkay, well, how 'bout a glass of white wine to start? 

Daughter: No thanks. 
Me: Are you pregnant?
Daughter: No.

Me: Are you drunk? 
Daughter: No.
Me: Are you driving? 

Daughter: No.
Me: Then what's your excuse?
Daughter: *Shrugging* I just don't really like drinking.
Me: *Striking hand to breast, collapsing in a heap* OMIGOD! They switched my baby at birth! They switched my baby! Take me right now lord. TAKE ME RIGHT NOW!'

Daughter: Mom? Please get up, we can't stay long.

Editor's note: It is painfully obvious: the toothless Mennonite is her mother. Your real child is somewhere in the hills of Elmira right now, leading a quilting bee while simultaneously giving birth to her thirteenth child and churning butter. 
My note: YOU SUCK EGGS THE SIZE OF BOWLING BALLS!