None For Me, Thanks - Or So I Thought!

And yet just a few years after this....

For the new millennium, I resolve to shriek like a banshee, flap my arms madly about, and roll my head in the largest possible circular motions I can whenever someone starts a sentence that even vaguely resembles the following in meaning/interpretation: “you know, you’re not really complete until you’ve had children.”

Don’t get me wrong: I think people who choose to have children, choose to raise them in a way that at the very least doesn’t leave them mentally or physically scarred due to parental negligence by the time they’re ready to head off into the “real world,” hey, I think those people are HEROES.

But just because I am physically capable of having children, does not necessarily mean I automatically need to “obtain” any. While I honestly believe I’d be a WONDERFUL parent if forced to (and it'd probably have to be at gunpoint), I know I’d also worry incessantly--that is, worry that I’d start sounding like everyone else I know who have had children.

“Gee, it’s so wonderful, David, you really should have one,” says my good friend, oh let’s call her Happy. Happy is always saying stuff like, “Oh, David, it’s just so incredible, you can’t imagine.” Or, “Oh, David, you really should try having one; you’d be amazed at the feeling.” Um, first of all, let me just say, yes, I can imagine I’d feel MORE than amazed if I tried having one, but still...

I invariably answer with stuff like, “Well, yes, Happy, it certainly is incredible; I mean the smell, the noise, the demands on your time...” And of course she replies with something noble like, “Oh, but you learn to forget all about YOURSELF. Your entire life is wrapped up in this extraordinary little person that YOU helped create. All of your thoughts center around her and oh my god it’s so wonderful and meow meow meow meow.”

“Meow meow meow meow?” I ask politely/confusedly.

My friend Happy giggles. “Oh, I’m sorry, I sometimes find myself now lapsing into ‘Henrietta Kitty’ speech--she’s on the ‘Mister Rogers’ show.”

“I see,” I nod fearfully while backing for the door.

The problem is, I want my entire life wrapped up in THIS extraordinary creature right now. And I’m pointing at myself. Me me me me me me. Again, I’m not dissing others’ rights to have children and enjoy them--nay, even IMMERSE themselves in them if that’s what they want. Truth be told, I LOVE all of my nieces and nephews. They are an incredibly beautiful, fun, smart, charming group of kids and I spend about a week with them each year--around Christmas--and love almost every minute of it. But that’s because, for me, it’s kind of like having a toy. I play with it all I want and then when I’m tired of it, I just go put it in the toybox (or give it to my brother, whatever). No dirty diapers. No having to instill values. No dealing with tantrums and the terrible twos and theatrical tirades and any other awful t-words connected with children.

And since I have few friends that have children, I’m hardly around them, which works for me because outside of your own and possibly your relatives, I firmly believe all other children are horrible demons who exist only to annoy old people. So I’m luckier than another friend of mine.....oh, let’s call him Unhappy. Unhappy, for some reason--some punishment from above for something he must have done as a child but which he, conveniently, cannot remember--seems to have this aura about him that attracts hateful, unruly children to his general area, no matter where that general area may be.

Unhappy can be in a restaurant, a movie theater, a BAR, it doesn’t matter. If there are evil, riotous children within scent, they will all close in on him--instantly--whenever he goes somewhere. Sometimes he tries being nice to them, perhaps attempting to disarm them, I don’t know, but it never works.

I made the mistake of going to see a movie with my friend Unhappy the other day, temporarily forgetting about his Pied-Piper-For-Horrid-Children tendency. Sure enough, we were barely into the previews of the movie when Nameless Brat #1, sitting behind us, starts kicking Unhappy’s seat. And I mean kicking it violently, not accidentally. Unhappy glances, gloweringly, at me, and then turns around to face Nameless Brat #1 and says, quite pleasantly considering, “Please stop kicking my seat.” Nameless Brat #1 stares blankly at Unhappy, who glowers again at me as he swivels his head back around to catch the movie, but of course Nameless Brat #1 is at it again about 2 minutes later. Still, Unhappy tries to be polite. (please grind your teeth as you read the next sentence, to get the full effect) “PLEASE stop kicking my seat.” Nameless Brat #1 again stares blankly.

Two minutes later, Nameless Brat #1 kicks Unhappy’s chair AGAIN, but also kicks MY chair as well. Nameless Brat #1 has now become Vile, Hideous Beast-Child From Hell and I whirl around and sigh/huff indignantly at both vile child and his, apparently, vile-habits inducing parent. Which brings up the only good reason I can think of to have a child. To show people how one should be raised.

Yes, my child would still be fun, spontaneous, charming, happy, gracious, etc. But he would also be WELL-BEHAVED. And I would take my well-behaved child all over town to places where maladjusted parents were forcing THEIR children on the general populace and I would plop my child down next to theirs, who would all promptly have to shield themselves from the glare, and I would say/screech: “You see! Do you see this? THIS is how a well-behaved child acts in public!” Then I would huff indignantly, take my wonder child by the hand and head home for a treat before putting him back in the toy box.