<Originally posted elsewhere on November 1st, 2008>
I am happily wasting away all of my reproductive capability because the thought of raising a child makes me want to cluck. The thought of diaper bags, formula and gushing over tiny-person-sized things is enough to make me want to stab cocktail wienie toothpicks in my arm until I can't feel anything anymore.
Strange as it may sound, I think if the circumstances presented themselves (which would essentially require some sort of divine intervention or one of my eggs joining a dating site "Submissive Egg ISO Quick Swimmer") I would actually be a decent parent. My child would have nice things, be fairly well adjusted (aside from rampant psycho DNA - see my family tree blog for more info), and would probably do normal things like sports and trim her own bangs.
I, however, would suffer in maddening silence and would probably develop an addiction to painkillers, gin or anonymous bathroom sex courtesy of Craigslist. I would probably hate it but grunt through it having no other option other than moving than to Nebraska and surrendering my child under the safe haven law (as long as you do it before abstract thinking develops, it's all good, right?).
My college roommate told me in early August that she is pregnant. Back in the day, I actually met her on IRC and her nick was "trez" which stood for Trent Reznor. She was madly hot for him in that I'm-going-to-have-his-baby kind of way which was really just code for I'd-clean-your-wet-concert-undies-with-my-tongue. She listened to angry music, was kind of a badass and I think taught me the term "anklebiter." She married a few years ago and although her life turned pretty sedate, I thought she and Mr. Trez were destined to avoid soccer practice and sippy cups. It's hard for me to imagine her as a mom but I think she'll make a good one (hopefully sans the painkillers, gin, and anonymous Craigslist bathroom sex).
One of my friends from our dinner group who I hadn't seen in nearly a year came to our housewarming party a couple weeks ago and I found out that she's pregnant.
And, this weekend I learned that one of my closest friends has "gone fetal."
What is the deal, people? Do I need to pack up my eggs and send them "back east" until this reproductive crisis is over? Is there something in the water? (Thank dog we're on a well these days.)
Every time one of my friends gets pregnant, I can't help but ask why there isn't one iota of me that wants to join them. Am I broken? And did I come out that way or did the environment convince me that I'm better off as Auntie-Fun-who-lets-us-stay-up-late-and-pet-the-cat-with-sticky-nerds?
As a child, I was convinced that my own mother was doing a terrible job and had I thought of it, I probably would have written her a scathing comment card. She used to say "When you have kids of your own..." which I always found myself completing "...I will do a better job than you did with me." (Granted, as an adult I now have mad respect for the job that she did although I still think there were a few "areas of opportunity.")
Maybe at some point I realized I would do a terrible job. Or maybe I felt discouraged by the fact that there hasn't been a safe haven in the form of a reality TV show that sends stressed out moms to Acapulco for margaritas and pool boys named Rico.
Or perhaps I am embarassingly selfish. A child would most definitely interfere with my odd, complicated life where I often do things simply because I can.
Isn't there some part of me that wants to be part of something bigger like bringing a child into a loving relationship?
In a word... No. I have no desire to force a watermelon through a bendy straw. I have no desire to alter any of the relationships in my life to include spit-up and pink-eye. And I'm not sure that I could explain the sheer number of fur coats in my closet or why I own a silver sequin dress but am not a stripper.
I will leave the parenting duties to those more capable, more responsible and less selfish.
Because that's how it should be.
No comments:
Post a Comment