I should never be a mom

I don’t really like kids.

I mean, I do. But I don’t.

I’m sure I’ll like my own kids one day, in fact I know I will because, after all, I’m pretty sure that loving your children is like the number rule of Motherhood or something. It’s just that right now, at the selfish age of 24, I can’t fathom paying complete attention to someone other than my self. It’s exhausting.

Most of my friends from high school and college who are married have already had a baby or are in the process of slow-cooking one. And, if they’re not pregnant or parents, they’re dreamily staring off into space rattling off their never-ending list of future baby names.

That’s awesome; I’m happy for you. And I might even want to hold your baby once or twice … so long as you make sure liquids are not coming out of the front or back end of it.

I don’t even have the motherly instinct. When a child in my general vicinity starts crying or whining, I immediately leave the area. When I see my nephew’s face twisting into a fit of tears, panic sets in. My gut reaction is tell him to shut-up and rub some dirt in it, but I know deep down that kids don’t understand how to just suck it up and the politically correct response is to like, hold them or something. I’m just not very nurturing right now.

But if a child has any food stuck on his face (and 9 times out of 10 it always looks like it’s some sort of jam consistency), I won’t go near them. I don’t find making a mess while you eat cute or endearing. If I can’t do it, you can’t either. When I’m a mom, I’m going to have to keep a supply of baby wipes in a holster by my hip. If you want Mommy to keep talking to you, you can’t have Gerber and spittle caked around your mouth.

Don’t get let me fool you though. Babies are wonderful blessings from God and enrich couples’ lives in ways that we can’t humanly fathom until it happens to us personally. I know when my own spawn comes sliding out of my personal space, I’ll be overcome with emotions that I may never have words for. Peering into the eyes of something I created out of love (or Long Island Iced Teas) will forever change my life and how I live it.

Last night at Clay’s softball game I bore witness to one of the reasons why I don’t like kids. The game before his hadn’t finished yet, so I made myself comfortable on the bleachers to watch the last inning while he warmed up on an adjacent field. As soon as I sat down, I couldn’t help but notice that there was a mini-day care at this particular set of bleachers, and that all of these children were brimming with super duper important things to say.

Two kids took turns shouting their ages at each other. Now, I’m not a genius with the metric system, nor am I good guesses at how old a child is based on looks (and for the record, when a parent tells me their kid is 28 months old, I want to haul off and smack them. No, your kid isn’t 28 months. Your kid is just over two. I don’t go around telling people that I’m 300 months old.), but I’m pretty sure they were both under ten. However, they kept screaming, “I’m 88! I’m 88 years old!” It was non-stop.

Then I noticed that there was a little old man sitting directly in front of them who could not have been a day under 85. The poor guy was just sitting there in his starchy trousers and fisherman hat while these youthful, able-bodied mini people were shouting, “I’m 88!” like it was a hilarious joke. Yeah, being 88 is hilarious … when you’re not actually 88. I was so embarrassed for myself, for the old man, and for society as a whole. I couldn’t believe their parents didn’t pick up on this and silence their young.

My only saving grace was the assumption that this guy was too old and couldn’t actually hear them.