I swear to God, I must be the only 24 year old woman on the face of the Earth that DOES NOT want children.
All of my friends are having babies. I don't even want a puppy. "You'll become a crazy cat lady," they chide teasingly, but I don't think they get it.
Babies are not cute. They're drooling alarm clocks that smell weird. They require constant attention and yes, I'm sure it's all worth it, bringing beautiful new life into the world and all, and I'm sorry if it’s my “sacred duty” as a female to bare offspring- I just really don't want to.
Not to mention it scares the ---- out of me that maybe I'll pass down some effed up genetics given to me by my "wonderful" mother and her’s before her. I'm not interested in that responsibility.
So as I sit here in the gynecologists office, waiting for them to tell me whether or not I can even HAVE that responsibility, I wonder what I would name them. It. What I'd name it. Is that too cynical? Too offending?
Nevertheless, I can remember talking about it as a little girl with my friends. "One boy and one girl!" They all agreed. "It'd be so perfect!" I mean, back then I guess I didn't care about the possible mental wellbeing of my child if I were to actually have one, like I'm supposed to. Because that's what's expected. Even as a little girl I knew that.
They called me in and showed me the screen. I felt my heart beat quicker as she delivered the news, the soul-crushing realization that I- could in fact- bare such a burden. All my life I attached the word "unable," "infertile" to myself- a part of my identity. My excuse for when people asked if I wanted kids. I had always assumed- I had felt like I just knew. And now some short women in a white lab coat with a name tag that read "Tracy"- Tracy was telling me I had nothing to worry about.
You mean I have EVERYTHING to worry about, Tracy. Because Tracy, I really don't think you quite understand my current predicament. OK? I really, really don't think you comprehend what's going through my head right now. I never wanted this.
...But at least I know I can. There are people out there who'd give up their lives to see what I'm seeing on the screen right now and to hear what Tracy is telling me but I'm sorry, I don't know why I started to think this way but I do not want to hear the word "mommy" in my ears, it hardly fit in my mouth when I tried to say it as a child. I do not want to feel little hands grabbing at my legs and arms and hair. I do not want to hear laughter or endless bawling coming from the living room of my nice, well furnished two story, three bedroom house. I don't want to clean up spilled apple juice from the back of a minivan. Bad genetics. Blame it on bad genetics. I don't want someone else's mental instability to be my fault. Again.
It'd be another thing I would never stop blaming myself for.
Growing up I became so used to seeing orange bottles lying around and once I was old enough to rid myself of that ugly color, I did so. I don’t want to raise a child who will have the same problem for the rest of their life, forever unable to un-see those ---- bottles. Why orange? Why such a happy color? Why not grey or brown. At least then it’d be naturally depressing, instead I see poppies and I think “pills.”
So I don't know. To be honest, I really don't. I start to think “of course not,” but then I wonder- I wonder maybe if I found the right person. Maybe the baby would have his eyes or his nose or his hair...
But at least I know, I know that maybe when I'm 29 or 32, if I'm ever so bored with my life that I need to start a new one, go through all the pain just for that first cry, then maybe I'll be interested.
But for right now, I'm not interested.