Friday, August 7, 2009

Baby Boom

I was on the phone with one of my good friends when someone brought a baby into her office. It sounded like the gates to a YSL sample sale just opened with all the squealing, oohing, and aahing. I almost barfed. Even my friend was participating in the debauchery. Women go ape shit when a baby comes around. Something about their powdery fresh smell and gurgling laughs make them turn into these crazed lunatics-kind of how I get when I see puppies...Look, it is a known fact that when women hit their mid twenties (maybe even younger), something snaps in them (I don't know, their friggin uterine wall?), and suddenly babies are on board.        

Remember that line in Brown Sugar when Kelbie says, "I got marriage on my menu?" Well swap babies for marriage and you've got the female remix.

It baffles me. Babies are gross. Now, most of my friends know that I am not the baby girl. Nothing has snapped in me and my biological clock isn't even wound up let alone ticking. While girls are cooing over the cute babies, I seem to only run into the ones that scream and act like fools. And of course, every chick says, "My baby will be so good." Um, why? Why would the watermelon-sized child that you squeeze out your lemon-size vagina (another reason kids suck) be any better than the screaming, vomiting, attention-stealing brat sitting next to you on the M104. They can't even wipe their own noses for goodness sake.

They steal your sleep, waking you up when they just know it's an un-godly hour. They crap in diapers. They hit a certain span of years when they are literally the devil incarnate and then they become teenagers, where finally they could be some fun, but instead they hate you and start lying and sneaking out! And before any of that can happen, they make you fat and once they come out, no one seems to care about you anymore. Hell, your name goes from the pronoun it once was to "Mom," a name that is shared with millions of other people. Bye bye individuality, hello ambiguity. Imagine having a glorious life with an amazing name and then suddenly your that lady breast-feeding in public because her kid won't shut up or the sleep-deprived woman with three day old puke on her mom jeans waiting in the carpool line in one of those ugly mini-vans with the automated doors! (Insert hyperventilation) No, no thank you.

Now of course there are the women who are lucky enough to employ a nice nanny to help out with the task of child-rearing. I had one. Rachel lived with our family when me and my siblings were all under the age of ten and both my parents worked, but the connection to our mom was still the strongest. The flip side of the coin is my friend Jeanie, who hates her mom and considers her nanny her real mother. Yes, thank you, evil child, because I needed help taking care of you, I get shitted on.

In contrast, men always say, "Yeah, someday I want some kids," like it matters, but not really. Oh, but for women, it's a given. If you don't want children, there's something wrong with you. People nod sympathetically like you just told them you had ovarian cancer and cannot have them instead of *gasp* not wanting them. It is completely possible for a woman to exist without procreating. This woman's work isn't dependent upon bringing a new human being into this world. And besides, why bring a child into a world with pedophiles, murderers, terrorist, and people who wear white after labor day?

To be fair, I'm sure there are wonderful children out there, I know some of them, but I like my body not being all stretched out and clinging to fifteen pounds of baby weight. I like sleeping a full ten hours uninterrupted. I like sex and having a social life. I like cute clothes void of stains from puking days gone by. I like showering and having my hair freshly done. I like lounging in bed and getting up when I decide to. I like being the center of attention and babies take that, too, along with everything else. Who knows, maybe my clock will suddenly appear in a couple years, but I doubt it. I'd go as far as to say I'd be shocked. And if by chance, one of those rug rats seems to slip by me, it isn't happening until I'm 40.

I could go on and on, but I won't. It just ain't my

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

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