Q: What could possibly be crazier than having seventeen children and totally ignoring the physical and emotional limitations of having litters?
Q: What is "more wrong" than having fifteen pregnancies in nineteen years?
A: Being pregnant with seventy-three (and climbing) babies at the same time.
Oh yeah. She's nuts. But, ya' know... at least her delusion isn't dumping diapers and poorly educated children into the world, so...who am I to judge.
Here's the recap for those who don't want to get mired down by the crazy.
Mother of multitudes (see link) drank some sort of magic cranberry juice, last year, that caused her to ovulate like a salmon. And, because every period is akin to an abortion, decided that she needed to make sure all the eggs were fertilized. Does she need sex for this? Hell no. She just gets pregnant. (NOTE: All of you who believe that this woman is whacked for that, and that alone, needs to rethink their devotion to Mary.) Now, because of the magic cranberry juice (which I believe is actually code for crack), this woman believes that she is capable of carrying super twins...and triplets....and quads...quints - Hell, I'm beginning to think the McCaughey septuplets emerged from her hoo-hoo. The woman who keeps this blog has, for the last two year, claimed to be pregnant with at least seventy-three different feti. Seventy-three was when I stopped counting...there may be more. You just never know with those sneaky, self-fertilizing feti. Now...I know some of you are saying, "Possummomma...this has got to be a joke." Oh. If it only were. The saga, like a badly written, George Lucas fanfic, continues...
You see. It's hard to keep track of that many babies. But, no problem...they name themselves. Once the babies are "conceived", they send messages to their mother and tell her what they should be named. I'm starting to feel that I need to cut the Duggars some slack, at this point.
But wait...there's more...
So, not only do the babies name themselves and manage to occupy one uterus: they're also very self-sacrificing. When mommy gets pregnant with baby number 192, it's a safe bet that one of the other fetuses will give up their spot to allow the next baby to live. Where's the Hallmark card for that one? Suck it, Hallmark!
And, like a late night Ginsu commercial,...we're not done yet.
These miraculous treasures will not be born in a hospital. Screw that. She's having a home birth...for seventy babies. An unassisted home birth. Which, I suppose, for the purposes of keeping up this charade in one's head is pretty integral. And, you know...because breastfeeding could be tricky, this mom has thought this whole feeding thing out. She really wanted rat's milk, because it's closer to human milk chemically, but....she's got to settle for goats milk because, well, while seventy-three breastfeeding children is odd, rat's milk is just pushing the envelope of sanity.
This, dear readers, is why it's not a good idea to indulge people in living, purely, in fantastical worlds of their own creation.
Hat tip to my friend, Amy, who pointed me to this chick.