After reading the comments on my last post, I just want to clarify. Sarcasm is my first language; keep that in mind with each and every post. I have nothing against couples or love. In fact, I have loved and been loved. I have hurt and been hurt. If the right situation comes along, I will do it again (lord help the next male prey.)
Until then, I am a happy camper as a party of one. And if I find someone to take along for the ride, it will stop at a party of two—unless the extra passengers are furry, of course.
See, I like puppies. I like kittens.
I like baby hamsters that delight in broccoli just about as much as I do (around a minute in he does this cute little leg flail thing.)
In other words, I don’t have anything against babies. But just because I don’t have anything against babies and children does not mean that I want them for myself.
Considering that I question my motivation for many of the decisions that I make, I have to say that this is one thing that I confidently know to the depths of my soul. I am not mommy material. My yearning to nurture things starts and ends at keeping a garden alive for three months. I can’t commit to a hair color for more than six months, much less keep a mini-me around for 18 years.
I will not be having children, at least in the traditional sense.
I plan on having hairy children in the form of four-legged friends.
Just like some people have a hard time believing that I choose to be single, (since I’m waiting for my prince to come sweep me off my feet—or just sweep my floors,) some people just can’t believe that I don’t want children. They tell me I’ll change my mind, that having one of my own makes it different and that it’s a little selfish to think only of myself for the rest of my life.
Like most things, I shrug it off.
In my opinion, too many people have kids that shouldn’t be parents. They liked the idea but neglected to consider the fact that it’s a lifelong commitment—not only of time, energy and emotional support but also financially. I actually think it’s a little selfish of people to think only of themselves when they have kids.
At any rate, I know that I don’t want the responsibility emotionally, physically and financially. I don’t want to transfer any of my issues onto a young impressionable mind that I can’t return back to its parents after a two hour trip to the zoo. I don’t like not being in control of my own body, so carrying around a little human for nine months suffocates me with anxiety.
But just because I don’t want kids doesn’t mean that I don’t think (most) of them are amazing; their innocence alone is inspiring. There are people out there that were made to be parents, and that dedication is reflected in their children and the people they grow up to be.
These kids are cool. These parents are cool. I like to visit and then go home before they get needy or leak something out of a hole in their body, but that’s just me.
And if there’s one thing that I confidently know to the depths of my soul, it’s that my children will be furry—and may possibly eat broccoli.