It’s happened again.
For the past few years, almost like clockwork, I start getting an urge to get knocked up around springtime. The feeling is usually gone before summer rolls around but June 21 is less than two weeks away and I still keep having baby love daydreams.
I hate when this happens, mainly because I feel like I have split personalities. You see, no part of my rational self wants a kid. Don’t get me wrong, I think motherhood is beautiful, but I’m not ready to be anybody’s mama. I can barely take care of myself. But despite this, something inside, probably hormones (or indigestion from too much Mexican food) has me wondering, “What if.”
To make matters worse, not one, not two, but three of my best friends are preggers. And folks around me keep saying, “You’re next.” and I keep saying “You’re crazy.” But I also keep kicking around baby names.
If you’re thinking, “Oh Jai, you’d be a great mom,” you obviously don’t know me well. I’m selfish, I’m broke, I hate cooking and I’m afraid that becoming a lactation station will give me saggy boobs.
While I work great with teenagers, little kids scare the crap out of me. They’re always leaking something from somewhere and they’re constantly giggling, babbling and falling like miniature drunks. In fact, I often refer to them as drunkards to their faces and I have a tendency to employ the “eye for an eye” philosophy when dealing with them. Case in point: one day at the grocery store this bad little girl threw Skittles at me. My response: I picked the candy up off the floor and hurled them right back at her. I bet she’ll think twice the next time she wants to throw confections at strangers minding their own business. But that probably wasn’t the mature, motherly thing to do.
So the next time you’re tempted to ask me when hubster and I are having kids, reread this post and remember that, at least for now, it’s best for society that I remain childless.