I don’t know if I’m ever going to have kids. I’m not saying this in a negative, woe-is-me, kind of way. It’s just a fact. When I was a kid myself, I imagined that I’d be married and have at least, oh, 5 of them running around by now. At that time, 18 seemed ancient (and good, solid marryin’ age apparently), so I’d mos def have a high schooler by the time I was 32. Right?
I find myself thinking about children a lot lately – not for myself, but the concept in general – because BFFF and her Husbando are in Full Throttle Adoption Mode. Things are clickin’ for them, folks, and it’s wonderful and exciting (edit: her blog about the process is wonderful and hilarious and insightful and worth a click or two. Please check it out).
Anyway, my deep thoughts have produced a few conclusions:
1. Babies are cute, but they scare me.
I’ve always been a little freaked out by them, but by the time my friends started poppin’ out their own offspring I was certifiably terrified. No, I do not want to hold it. No, I’m not sure I even want to touch it. No, no, little Junior doesn’t disgust me. The dirty diapers and excess of bodily fluids doesn’t bother me too much, actually. It’s their size. So damn delicate! I won’t even pick up my friend’s cat (and that thing is the chillest, sturdiest motherfucker I’ve ever known. Cat-wise, that is) much less a tiny, limp human being. Too much damage potential. No thank you.
As a point of reference, the last baby I held is starting kindergarten soon. The entire time, his mom was making one of those smile-grimace faces and doing that reach-out-hesitate thing, saying things like “um, well, he doesn’t like to be held like that… um, have you done this before?”
No, ma’am. I certainly have not and I do not care to repeat this experience.
2. I don’t want to think about where babies come from.
Pregnancy isn’t beautiful. It is terrifying and disgusting. A friend who is pregnant with her first child keeps talking about how awesome it is when she feels the baby move. If she ever grabs my hand and puts it on her belly when this happens so help me God she’s going to walk away from that experience with a black eye. It’ll be an involuntary punch, but it’ll land.
The thought of a living, growing THING inside of me is horrifying. I can’t make it any more clear. And to think about that THING bursting forth from my lady parts or (worse, still) being ripped out of my guts by a surgeon? FUCK no.
3. I have terrible genes.
Any child I bear will be genetically fucked. He’ll be born half-blind, and need a billion dollars’ worth of corrective eye surgeries. He will have funky-ass crooked teeth and a fucked up jaw that will require massive amounts of orthodontia, because it won’t be “well, he can get it fixed when he’s older” it’ll be “well, he’s not able to properly chew food, so that might pose a problem…”
As he grows up, his brain will be riddled with some sort of mental illness. Perhaps crippling anxiety? Or the persistent black hole of chronic depression? Maybe he’ll win the genetic lottery and get both! And then he’ll die of cancer. Or heart disease. Or have heart disease for awhile, then eventually die of cancer. Best of both worlds.
On the plus side, there’s always the outside chance he’ll have red hair. *crosses fingers*
Okay, okay. I know I could change my mind. Maybe I’ll get myself knocked up and become one of those earthy, granola ladies who get plaster casts made of their bellies and give birth in an inflatable kiddie pool and eat their placentas and never shut the fuck up about how beautiful it is to be with child. And then maybe I’ll wear the kid in a sheet tied around my neck for the first 3 years of his life. And maybe the individual with whom I spawn will have Super Genes and we’ll produce a baby with perfect vision and great teeth and a permanent sunny disposition and who never in his life will feel the soul-crushing urge to drink himself into oblivion after a hard day at work.
I’m okay with standing corrected, overall. Though, for the record, I deserve to take a right cross to the face if I ever grab someone’s hand and put it on my pregnant stomach. So help me God.
Also, the earthy granola lady I’m imagining is Maggie Gyllenhaal in Away We Go. I love this movie. You should check it out: