I’ve been married for two and a half years, which means I should have at least two little brats by now. But I don’t, and I won’t for a while, because I’m not ready.
There are a lot of people out there that seem to think it’s perfectly acceptable to ask me when I’ll have a baby. There are also people whom I’ve never met in my life that ask my mom when I’m going to make her a grandmother. Like I owe it to these strangers to give my mom a grandchild. I don’t, and neither does my uterus, which is happy as can be in its vacant state.
I’m not completely against kids. One day, I might have one. But for now, and for a few more years, there will not be a fetus hanging out inside me, living off my body like the tiny alien jerk it is.
And that’s not happening anytime soon because I am selfish, and I am perfectly fine admitting that.
I don’t want a child right now because I want to go to the bar. Nine days without beer is bad enough, but nine MONTHS? That’s too much to handle right now.
I don’t want a child because I kind of like my body as is. I know what happens pre and after birth, and it’s scary. And that pain thing I keep hearing about during birth? Nuh-uh, don’t want it.
I also don’t want a child because in terms of my career, I’m on a roll. My resume is shiny, impressive and borderline overweight in terms of all the show-off-y crap I can put on it. I don’t want to put an immediate halt to that. Plus, I really like my job.
Add all these up, and I would be an unfit mother. I know this and the world – and this hypothetical child – is better because of it. SO STOP ASKING ME WHEN A CHILD IS GOING TO FLY OUT OF MY VAGINA.
–By Lindsay Patton-Carson