I was a baby once. I don’t really remember it though. I was probably drunk. But I like babies. They’re cute and soft and smell good 2/3 of the time. You can buy them stuff and they laugh at your jokes as long as you end them with a belly zerbert. Though to be honest, that works on my mom, too. You can teach them to like what you like and hate what you hate. You can teach them how to hug, how to walk, how to potty and how to say curse words. And these are the things you don’t want them learning on the street. Super fun! It seems recently lots of my friends are either knocked up or just finished birthing. So it kinda puts babies on the brain. Now, don’t get it twisted. It doesn’t make me want to have a baby. (Sorry, Melanie. I know you’re holding fast to that fading torch.) But it makes me think of all the reasons why babies scare the ever living hell out of me.
(Dude. Stop looking at me like that…Seriously…Stop it! You’re freaking me out.)
So I have learned through my sister and friends that the joys of pregnancy actually suck. Of course, there’s the obvious weight gain and emotional crap pregnant women go through. And we all know how I would hate to destroy my hawt physique or super stable psyche. But you know what else happens? Stretch marks that make your gut look like a freaking topographical map. You become the before picture for a Proactive zit commercial. You get hemorrhoids to your knees. You can’t sleep on your stomach (my fav). You have nightmares. Your hair goes crazy (not my hair!). Your teeth get soft because the baby’s sucking all your nutrients from within. You leak pee-pee. Your boobs get veins that rival your stretch marks. And all of this before the damn kid even arrives!
(The demon who did this to me? We call him Skippy, Jr.)
Now, I saw my sister give birth. It was not cute. To bring your bundle of joy into the world, they give you an episiotomy. That’s a cut from ummm…Point A towards, ummm… Point B so you don’t literally tear yourself a new one. Oh my freaking Lord! Then, you most likely will take a giant crap on the table in front of your doctor, nurses, husband, flower delivery guy and so forth. And just when the fruit of your looms makes an appearance and you think “thank God that’s over”, you learn…it’s not over. You have to spend another God knows how long birthing “placenta” or the sack o’ nasty your baby has been living, breathing, eating and pooping in for 9 months without a bath. Wow, bringing a new life in the world is a beautiful thing.
Now of course, as most non-reproductive people do, I have to talk about money. Babies/kids cost a damn lot of money. And babies aren’t like bills. You can’t play Bill of the Month Club with them. “Oh, sorry electric company. You lose. Better luck getting paid next month!” I can do that. Try telling a kid, “Well, it was food or clothes this time around. Enjoy your corn nuts. You can wear your birthday suit to school this week. Mommy loves you!” People will call the cops on your ass for that shit. Baby clothes cost some mad cash. One time, I was looking for an outfit for one of my friends who had created precious life with her soul mate-of-the-week. Baby clothes cost just as much as Christa clothes! And since I was buying something for the kid, I didn’t want to feel left out, so I had to buy something for me, too. I mean, why should the baby get all the presents? It won’t even remember what I got it. I’m important, too. And if I had my own kids, this mode of shopping could bankrupt a gal with a quickness.
(I know it’s itchy, but blue makes Mommy’s eyes pop!)
And that’s not counting stuff like toys, diapers (who the hell pays $30 for a box of fancy paper towels for a baby to crap on?), safety gear, medicine, doctors, pictures, cleaning fluids…and that’s not half of what these beings require to survive the first month. I could go on. But I won’t. But I could.
Babies like to cry. Some people think it’s because the kid wants something. Like food or love. I know better. Babies cry because they like it. They can’t read, they can’t change the tv channel to something they like, they can’t fix themselves a snack, they can’t drive to the movies and they have no money (see above). So how can they entertain themselves? By making the big people run around like a bunch of idiots to see what they can do to make Baby stop making that God awful noise. HI-lariousness! I will be straight up with you right now. The sound of a crying baby makes my ovaries turn themselves inside out and shrivel up like raisins. Look kid, cry alone in the bathtub with a bottle of Pinot like the rest of us. Quit the public dramatics already.
(This is my lady parts…this is my lady parts on crying babies. Any questions?)
And you know what, as cute as babies are, they don’t stay that way forever. Babies turn into adolescents, tweenagers, teenagers (oh my). You think baby crying was bad? Wait until they’re old enough to cry louder, harder and yell, curse and hate you for weeks on end without stopping. Oops, there goes those ovaries again. I didn’t like adolescence when I went through it. Why the hell would I want to go through it again with the person who gave me hemorrhoids that still haven’t healed in 13 years? That’s right. I don’t.
Selfless vs. Selfish
I’ll be honest. What most of this comes down to is I’m a selfish bitch. And I’m ok with that. I love that on an airplane, when they give the oxygen mask speech, they tell you to put your own mask on first and then help a kid. Because that’s what I’d do regardless and I don’t want to be getting the stink eye on a crashing plane for looking out for Number One.
(So, can I like use you as a flotation device? You know…just in case.)
It takes a super selfless person to be a parent. I’m not necessarily that person. I like my life. I like going out when I want. I’m pretty sure giving my kid a shot of Nyquil with a Benadryl chaser so I can go to All-80’s-Karaoke-Night-Drinks-½-Price-if-You’ll-Sing-Huey-Lewis, is a bad idea. You know, the cop thing again. I don’t want to watch my damn, hell, ass language. You also have to teach kids stuff. I’m a crappy teacher. I get so frustrated with stupid people. “What do you mean, I have to teach you how to feed yourself? You’ve been out of the womb for like, months now. Geez, look it up.” Also, what if I hate my baby? What if it’s an asshole and I don’t even realize it. It happens to people all the time. Or worse, what if I do realize my kid’s an asshole? What do I do? Should I tell him? Or pretend he’s cool? I don’t know which is meaner. And again on the selfish thing, this child probably needs a father figure. Someone to be strong, kill bugs, avoid uncomfortable situations like sex talks and smack the kid around if it needs it. I don’t want to have to smack my own kid when she’s being a douche. I would be her world and it might scar her or something. Whoopins are so a dad thing. My dog would be a good protector and listener and she’ll walk away if you’re boring her like a dad. She’s hairy enough. But she’s a girl. And I can’t ask Brian to do everything for me. And I sure as hell am not pretending to love some loser so he’ll play daddy to my kid. I’m going through enough pretending my kid’s not a jerk-ass, serial killer in the making. Ugh, I need some me time.
So, we can all see now why a baby just isn’t my “thing”. I’ll never say never. Except for there, where I totally just said never. You never know what the future will bring. (Damn, there I go with the “never” thing again!) My mind is open. But I really just can’t see it. I love, love, adore my nieces. And I love my friends sweet, cuddly little bay-bays. But when all is said and done, I am damn glad to accept those adorable hugs and kisses then hand them over at the end of the day when they’re tired and cranky and I’m through filling them with sugar. All hail the real heroes…MOMS and DADS!
(He’s hungry, dirty, wet and pissed at the Republicans. Thanks for letting me babysit!)