Good for You, But It’s Not For Me

Here’s the thing about babies, I don’t want any of them (at least at any point in the even remotely foreseeable future) so please stop asking me if I do. I don’t, as I believe I’ve mentioned previously.
Now generally I’m not opposed to repeating myself. I’m vain enough to like the sound of my own voice. Frankly, in my opinion, the more talking I get to do, the better. I like to listen to myself so much sometimes I even repeat myself on purpose if I believe something I said was so clever it bears repeating (it rarely ever does).
My problem doesn’t lie with me having to repeat myself. Clearly I’m game for that. What I’m not okay with is the unfair assumption that I should be doing something just because I’m a certain age and just because (it seems) like everybody else is doing it.
I get it. A lot of people my age are having babies. It’s impossible for me to escape that reality. Babies have taken over my Facebook News Feed. Everywhere I look there are baby pictures. There are “one month” baby pictures, “two month” baby pictures, baby sitting down pictures, baby laying down pictures, baby eating mashed peas pictures and baby (rightfully) refusing to eat mashed peas pictures. You get the drift: there are a lot of baby pictures.
Now I’m not some heartless, baby-hating demon lady who hates baby pictures. Baby pictures aren’t bad. Post all the baby pictures you want proud mamas and papas. You should be proud, you created a little person and are adequately taking care of it so it can mature at an acceptable and healthy rate. That’s pretty impressive stuff.
It’s just, I do not want to do that myself (at the moment or in the remotely foreseeable future). When I see all of these baby pictures my brain thinks two things in rapid succession: 1) Aww, that’s cute and 2) Holy crap, that little person can’t do anything aside from lay around and avoid eating mashed peas.
The thing is, I do not want to be in charge of a little human whose main priorities are eating, sleeping and soiling its pants. That means I’d be in charge of its food, its sleeping arrangements and its soiled pants. Not cool. That’s way too much pressure for me. Also, it sounds exhausting.
Never having been a parent myself, I’m not privy to the mind-blowing joy that I assume comes with having children.I can almost imagine it. I mean, in September 1986 my parents were lucky enough to welcome me into their family and well, that must have been pretty darn great. I mean, they really nailed it with that one.
But even when parents aren’t lucky enough to have me as a kid, they still seem to like it. Despite all of a kid’s screaming, crying and pooping, the baby’s parents love him or her anyway. I generally don’t love kids when they act like this. I don’t love them at all. As a general rule, I try to avoid people who cry more than me.
Maybe, one day, I’ll be suddenly overcome with a need to have a baby, a baby who screams, cries and poops. But seeing as how I still  can’t seem to get over the screaming, crying and pooping aspects of babies to focus more clearly on the bundles of joy aspects, I doubt  that day will be any time soon.
So yeah, you can stop asking me about it now. K. Thanks.
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