All my life, I thought I wanted kids. I just knew I’d be the coolest mom ever – the one my daughter’s friends would want to hang out with and my son’s friends would want to pork.
I’ve always considered myself a person of superior intellect and moral integrity and would surely pass these traits along to my offspring. They would grow into upstanding members of society who, ultimately, would make the world a better place.
But then I’d visit a girlfriend and observe her kids engage in a no-holds-barred bitch fight over who got the bigger scoop of Chunky Monkey. Or I’d watch my pregnant co-worker develop jowls and cankles seemingly overnight. Or I’d notice that all the moms I know appear noticeably more wrinkled and, well, tired than the childless women.
And then I contemplate my own existence. My shower doors are bountifully sprouting a new form of life. I’ve been driving around with one hubcap missing for more than six months. And now, as I glance over at my side table, I see that I’ve killed my lucky bamboo.
With all this ineptitude at life glaring at me in the face, I wonder how I could possibly take care of a child when I can barely take care of myself?
I Can’t Handle the Truth
First off, I cherish my sleep and would have extreme difficulty enduring nightly tit chewing sessions at three o’clock in the morning. Maybe when I was 20 and the guy had some good ecstasy, but not anymore. I would almost certainly be driven to throw a lactating labrador into the crib and let the kid suckle on her teats. My child might not ever advance to standing on hind legs, but that’s a risk I would just have to take. It’s either that or Baby Valium.
And once they get older, it doesn’t get any better. I mean, really? You need to eat three meals a day? Unless popcorn and frozen soybeans constitute a meal, I’m in deep trouble. I foresee regular visits from child protective services as permanent fixture on my Outlook calendar.
Beyond the burden of nourishing the child, there’s my decidedly low tolerance for a particular sound that comes out of these urchins that makes me want to immediately destroy the source. You are all familiar with this noise. The shrill, piercing shriek emitted at an octave so exceedingly high it normally can only be reached by a humpback whale or one of the Bee Gees. I sometimes hear this screech while in the frozen aisle at the grocery store. I fear the freezer doors will shatter and I’ll be mutilated by a flying shard of glass to the throat. And this would be preferable to the screaming.
My Dream Child
Years ago when I was a waitress at a fancy restaurant, an Asian couple came in with the cutest little boy dressed in a private school uniform, complete with beanie, bow tie and short pants. He couldn’t have been more than six, and he was the most well-behaved child I’d ever encountered. He spoke clearly, said “may I,” “please” and “thank you” and sat perfectly still throughout the entire meal. I began to think there was hope for humanity – and my sanity.
Then I thought about what those parents must’ve done to that kid to make him so mannerly. They probably whipped him senseless upon the sight of a skid mark on his underwear and locked him in a serpent-filled torture chamber if he brought home an A-.
And with these thoughts, a grin slowly crept across my face. I became giddy at this incredible opportunity I’d be presented with if I bore a child. Finally — I could let my real personality shine through and have a neat, well-mannered kid. Jackpot!
I began to dream up names for my progeny and decided I’d call it Fritz, regardless of gender… until a disturbing thought entered my head. I envisioned Fritz, 20 years later, discussing his/her “troubled” childhood on the Tyra Banks show.
“My mother was an absolute monster,” Fritz would tell Tyra, her naturally humongous breasts now grazing her size 20 thighs. “She would dance like Cha-Cha DiGregorio in the middle of Walgreens just to embarrass me, and she believed in weekly waterboarding sessions to keep me in line. One day I snapped. And that’s why I opened fire on all those people at the Maroon 5 reunion concert.”
I mused on this detail for a moment. It dawned on me that if Tyra Banks somehow wound up in this scenario, maybe child rearing wasn’t my strong suit.
I imagine there are many mothers reading this with mouths agape in disgust, thinking what a terrible, terrible human being I must be.
But in my heart, I know there are moms out there who are reading this now with a tear in their eye, clutching their breast and nodding their head, thinking, “At last, somebody understands me.”
Categories: Something is Wrong with Me