Last year was a milestone year. There were two clearly documented instances of people finding it within the realm of possibility that I could have children. Actual children. Offspring which I had produced. It was highly unnerving.
Instance number one happened during a regular doctor’s visit. I had just finished grumbling about various ways in which my body was failing my standards when my doctor interjected with “You’re that girl who came in with her little child a few weeks ago, right?” He quickly ascertained from my look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” that he was mistaken. We moved on. He took my blood pressure, which was probably elevated.
Instance number two took place while I was picking out a scrawny Christmas tree at Home Depot, with my mother no less. As always, the man who wrapped the trees and who I’d imagine had the highest splinter incidence of any job chainsawed off the very bottom of the trunk so the tree could drink its water or whatever it is that trees do. As a good-hearted gesture he offered the cross-section of the trunk he’d just created as a way of measuring how old the tree we were about to mutilate was, asking if we had any “little ones” at home who would appreciate these tree age dynamics. My mother responded with “just one” clearly (or at least to me) referring to me, her only child. Tree man forced a smile and handed the tree fragment to me, adding “oh you have one.” He was also promptly met with the look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” and attempted to reclaim the tree fragment. I kept it anyway. Why is there an age limit on interest in trees?
What I suppose I’m trying to get at here is that, provided this were any time before 1900, I would probably be mashing up cornmeal for a troupe of my own youngins by now. But this was the year 2011 and I somehow found it utterly inconceivable (insert Vizzini here) that I could have possibly procreated by now. Hell, as far as I’m willing to go at this point in time is drafting Punnett squares of what my hypothetical offspring would look like mixed with good looking celebrities. No actual uterine parasites allowed in here, no way!
To be quite honest I can’t even imagine any time in the future where I would look upon having children as a legitimate possibility. I mean my current interest in offspring really does not extend beyond:
- Naming them
- Clothing them
I’ve had extensive experience with the children of others and I’m just really not a huge fan of jam hands and screaming and non-rational humans and I don’t care what kind of hormones I would be under the influence of because I would still most likely not find child rearing all that thrilling. And I could really care less about what lackluster genes I pass on (oh yeah fuck you Darwin!).
Chances are I’ll have a complete motherly turnaround when it’s far too late and I’m some old curmudgeon who attempts to impregnate herself with a turkey baster, but I really just can’t see myself being responsible for another living, breathing human being when I can barely make myself breakfast. I suppose I’m just another product of changing societal attitudes regarding not seeing children as some sort of grand prize in life, and I certainly won’t judge those who do choose this, but thus far, I really, really can’t fathom having a mini-me of my own.
So preemptive sorry, (non-prospective grand) parents.