Baby, Baby, Baby, No

I hate people who have kids.

Interact with them for any amount of time and they will inevitably try to convince you to join their cult. “It’s so great, it’s so rewarding, it’s given my life meaning.  Oh, no I can’t play beer pong tonight. Can’t find a babysitter. You should have one of these so we can have play dates!”

Sounds fab, sign me up.

The worst, though, is when you get a group of mothers together.  Faster than you can say, “mucus plug!” the conversation ALWAYS turns to childbirth. In fact, I know far too much about childbirth.  Far, far, far too much. And every time I get sucked into this conversation there is some new factoids that make me want to take a vow of chastity.

The mere thought of childbirth makes me queasy.  I can’t watch tv characters give birth, even though I know it’s fake.  I could barely restrain myself from passing out during the birth scene in “Knocked Up” (seriously not funny, Judd Appatow!). And in case I ever accidentally get knocked up myself, I’d like to preserve the myth that you push and moan for a few minutes and *poof* there’s the baby.

I’d love to avoid these conversations all together, but I’ve reached the age where I’d have to hang out with college students or post menopausal women to find people who don’t have kids. I’m not sure when my life became the boring episodes of Sex and the City.

There’s really nothing I can do other than squirm uncomfortably. I have nothing to add. I once tried to jump in and it didn’t go over very well.

“Yeah, I totes know what you mean. I was once constipated for four days.  It was quite painful!”

That was the day I was regaled with tales about the first post-partum bowl movement. Lesson learned.  Will keep mouth shut.

I think this is a bonding thing, like the way soldiers will talk about their experiences.  Or how single girls bond over bad boyfriends and boys burp and fart.

I’ve had to come up with a coping mechanism to survive these conversations.  I just smile to myself and shake my head sympathetically at their obvious jealousy.  That’s right, I can have an Jager Bomb contest on a Wednesday night.  No babysitter to find.  No guilt at leaving the child in the car at the bar.

It’s totally awesome to act 22 when your life has hitched a ride on a landslide toward 30.

The kid thing is a really complicated  thing for me right now.  I want to be irresponsible more than I want to be responsible.  I’ve fought so hard for my independence, that I don’t want to surrender it all to a screaming, pooping blob. And yeah, sometimes I want to freak out about turning into a grownup by pretending I never learned about consequences and drinking myself silly for no reason.

I ardently hope that some day my life will include kids. And if it does, I don’t want to be scared away by those gruesome stories.

So please, I am begging all you mothers out there, on behalf of the poor wandering childless, please stop with the child birth horror stories if you want us to drink your Kool Aid.


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