“The White House has been hearing out a chorus of ideas in recent weeks for persuading Americans to get married and have more children, an early sign that the Trump administration will embrace a new cultural agenda pushed by many of its allies on the right to reverse declining birthrates and push conservative family values.” — New York Times
Stay-at-Home Mom—or “SAHM” as the truly fuckable people say—is one of the most sexually arousing roleplays I can imagine for myself or any woman (we are all pretty much interchangeable, after all, and what works for one of us will no doubt work for all of us). And when a pure sex machine like JD Vance says something completely provable like, “Young children are clearly happier and healthier when they spend the day at home with a parent,” and then helps lead one of the hottest and horniest meetings of the minds in modern political history to brainstorm ways to not only raise the birth rate in our country, but keep more parents at home with their children, I feel my uterus start to involuntarily contract.
As the SAHM of two small kids, I can tell you that not only is this arousing acronym a completely accurate, satisfying, and untroubling way to identify myself to the world at large, but it also makes me feel like my personal identity is so meaningless that it need not even exist or be acknowledged outside the boundaries of my home, which is where I get to stay. Can you think of anything more deliciously erotic than that?
Every time I write SAHM (emphasis on the Mmmm) on the “occupation” line of the many forms I get to fill out for myself and my children at places where women who don’t like to fuck are employed as doctors, dentists, educators, and car mechanics, I feel a powerful sexual thrill that can be rivaled only by one other thought: that of a vigorous, peerlessly charismatic Republican like Elon Musk or Josh Hawley hanging a National Medal of Motherhood around my hot little neck.
If I close my eyes, I can still see Senator Hawley running manfully away from the January 6 mob he helped incite, his back Carlton Banks–straight while his legs flew beneath him at a hero’s pace. “Yes, chef?” more like, “Yes, senator!”
In fact, I may be pregnant right now, just thinking about it.
So, it’s a good thing Hawley has proposed a $5,000 tax credit per child, because everyone knows that’s more than enough to assure a child’s success in a country where the average cost of raising children is over $20,000 annually and the average cost of a dozen eggs is roughly twice as much. If that math doesn’t add up for you, it’s probably just because you didn’t factor in the $1,000 in Trump bucks you’ll get if you deliver a newborn by 2029. And if that still doesn’t sound like enough to even make a dent in your childcare costs, ask yourself why you’re not sexy enough to stay at home all day while a grumpy baby farts and throws Cheerios into your prematurely graying hair as you mutter to the wall that you graduated from college Phi Beta Kappa.
Some women might think that being a SAHM means forfeiting their earning, intellectual, and social power for the sake of their children, who may not even like them very much or fare better with them than they would at a quality daycare. These women might also be worried that the current administration’s attacks on public education and policies that promote access to it for all children are somehow bad for future generations. But these women aren’t sexy, and they most definitely aren’t patriots.
Take it from me, a baddie with a body (that has been absolutely wrecked by bearing two children) who gave up a minimally lucrative career in marketing to raise her babies because her husband’s job paid much better and the cost of daycare and the prospect of getting into a good one seemed too daunting to pursue: There is nothing in this life that makes me feel more potent, sexual, or ready to triple the size of my brood than staying in my house all day with my children. Especially when they are screaming at me or each other over some deeply felt but completely illogical perceived slight, which is always. If it weren’t for the inconvenient distractions caused by libraries, public schools, public parks, and public broadcasting, I’d probably want to get down and get pregnant even more.
And since my husband and I are never worried about whether he will lose his job, or if our kids’ school will lose funding, or if our neighbors will be deported, or if our gay and trans friends will be stripped of more of their rights, or if the air quality will get so bad that we will all be forced into being stay-at-home everyones, we both feel so sexually supercharged at all times that we could probably resurrect this nation’s mystifyingly low birthrate all on our own. Which sounds like it might easily net us between six and ten thousand dollars, and at least as many medals.
So let me just peel off these come-fuck-me, yogurt-splattered sweatpants, attempt to shave my legs below the knee while my children interrupt me at least seventeen times in two minutes, throw away my birth control (which will probably be outlawed soon anyway), and start doing the real work of saving this great nation. It’s not like I planned on leaving the house today (or ever) anyway.