When I tell people I don’t want kids, I’m always looked at like I have two-heads (none of which will be coming out of my vagina). Since it’s 2018, I’d like to think that I don’t have to explain the millions of reasons why you should never ask a woman in her thirties (or a woman at any age really) why she doesn’t have kids. To save you from having to ask, I’ve decided to address this relatively hot topic and explain my own personal reasons why I’ve chosen to be a lifetime member of the no-babysitters club. (ARE YOU READING THIS MOM?) Although I’m a very nurturing partner, friend, woman, and daughter, I don’t seem to have a motherly bone in my body. Unlike a majority of women, my ovaries don’t burst into flames at the very sight of a chubby baby leg or a teeny tiny version of something typically deemed for adults. The idea of smelling a baby’s head for the sake of experiencing some sort of euphoric bliss is completely wasted on me. If it’s similar to walking into an Abercrombie and Fitch store though, then I totally get it, that smell is utterly intoxicating! The thought of even holding a baby gives me major anxiety. The second someone hands me a tiny human to hold, I immediately feel like I was just tossed a loaded gun. Not knowing what direction to point it at, I do my very best to ensure that I don’t make any sudden movements that could possibly set this thing off. Babies are unpredictable little pistols, one wrong move, and all of a sudden you find yourself held up right there in the breast pump aisle of Babies R Us. A few years back I attended a friend’s over the top baby shower (ugh, I’ll get back to how horrible these things are in a minute), and a girlfriend of mine passed me her eight-month-old so she could go to the restroom (probably just so she could enjoy five whole minutes to herself in peace!). I remember feeling completely panicked that I’d have to act like I wasn’t terrified. I also didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the opportunity to hold this sacred child since the other women sitting at the table around me seemed to be jealous that they didn’t get asked. I could literally feel them all staring at me, biting their lips in yearning as if I were holding an entire box of Krispy Kremes. In desperation, I decided that I better get my shit together quick and figure out my game plan for the next 5 minutes, so in my infinite out-of-my-ass wisdom, I decided to go the failsafe bouncing baby on my knee route. Luckily, it worked and mom and baby were reunited exactly seven minutes later (what the hell was she doing in there??) and I was able to get back to sipping my mimosa and fake laughing at completely over my head “mom jokes”. That was a very definitive moment for me because it was when I truly realized that I never wanted a baby shower hosted in my honour. I understand the concept of a baby shower, I get that buying everything you need to birth and care for a new human being is outrageously expensive, but can’t we just start up a GoFund Me campaign for these women or something instead of making the rest of us give up an entire Sunday afternoon? I’m sure even the women with kids wouldn’t miss those tiny egg salad sandwiches and the insufferable baby shower entertainment such as the “dirty diaper game”. What sick son of a bitch came up with THAT game by the way? Thanks a lot for ruining KitKats for me, Karen! After three-four hours of being showered with gifts that she had to act surprised receiving although she picked them all out herself putting together the baby registry, I’m sure that even new moms-to-be become quite tired of this whole ridiculous tradition. Also, a note to all resident moms attending a first-timers baby shower, nobody wants to hear about your horrific birth story and how you needed stitches from arsehole to appetite. Just keep that shit to yourself. Since I was a little girl it was ingrained in me that I’d grow up and have my own family someday. My parents only had one (perfect) child, so I assumed that I would meet my Prince Charming straight out of college and naturally follow suit (Can we all just laugh for a second that I thought I’d actually meet Prince Charming? LOL). I wasn’t unlike any other little girl who played “house” with her baby dolls, I even went as far as curating the perfect names for my future unborn offspring. Don’t get me wrong, little Shelby and Alexander would have been adorable blessings, but as I aged the idea of actually having kids became more and more terrifying. First of all, the mere thought of physically having a baby makes me cringe. For those of you who don’t know me, I have an extremely weak stomach and tolerance for pain, hospitals, needles, and anything to do blood. If a stork could actually deliver babies to your doorstep like I once believed as a child, well, I probably still wouldn’t have kids but at least I wouldn’t be labeled a total wimp. Even if I DID decide to have kids, I’d have to adopt or foster because there is no way in hell I could survive nine months of doctors appointments and 22 hours of labour (I just threw up in my mouth a lil bit even typing that) without acquiring a major anxiety disorder. People used to tell me that I’d eventually change my mind and wake up one day suddenly feeling the urge to procreate, but that day never came just like the whole stork thing never really came to fruition. As my mother once explained to me, the whole “infant” stage of parenthood wasn’t really her favourite part of raising me, and I have to agree that none of that appeals to me either. Not that she didn’t take full advantage of my days as a toddler by dressing me up in totally out-there 80’s outfits that could have put Boy George to shame, but I do truly believe that she really blossomed as a mother when I became a teenager and I have to say, she really rocked it. Teenagers are the scariest creatures to have ever walked the face of the earth (after 2 p.m. obviously, because good luck getting them out of bed before then). Let’s face it, they are basically the walking dead and the only way you know they’re alive is when you hear the occasional grunting noise or the clicking sound of a PlayStation controller. I give the parents raising today’s teenagers major props, I basically live in a bubble, but from what I’ve heard, it’s a pretty scary world out there. Drugs, social media, cell phones, dick pics, World of Warcraft, more drugs…honestly, I don’t know how parents even let their kids leave the house these days! Having to explain to a 16-year-old with their first heartache that this is the first of many, and having to make sure that your teenager stays on the right path and doesn’t make one wrong move that’s going to completely ruin their entire future of mediocrity (let’s be real), seems like a much heavier weight than I’m willing to lift. My biological clock is already nearing the end of its ticking cycle anyway since I’m now in my mid-thirties and even though they say that 30 is the new 20, I feel like that rule, unfortunately, doesn’t apply to my uterus (or my love of taking endless selfies). We are starting to have kids a lot later in life than our parents once did, but they also lived in a time where social media wasn’t ruining relationships and a PB&J sandwich was a perfectly acceptable and affordable option to pack in your kid’s school lunch without having to send an Epipen alongside it. Times have changed, and more and more people have chosen to put having kids on the back burner to their careers, their travel plans, their health and fitness, and any other goals that they deem to be more important when it used to be the complete opposite. For me, it was never about having more or achieving certain things before having kids, to be honest, if I really wanted them that badly, I would have probably put my dreams on hold in order to make it happen, but when I saw glimpses of my future, I just never saw having kids in the frame. I don’t think people like to always admit to the selfish reasons why they don’t want to reproduce. Nobody wants to say the words out loud that they’d rather spend Saturday mornings recovering from a hangover in bed binge-watching Netflix instead of getting up at 6 a.m. to pour out some dry Cheerios on a plastic tray for someone who can’t even appreciate that you only went to bed at 3 a.m. For me, the selfish reasons aren’t for the sake of partying or not having a curfew, it’s more about the value of my alone time and not being on someone else’s schedule. Being an only child, I got used to spending time with myself. This doesn’t mean that I don’t immensely enjoy being social and surrounding myself with the people I love and care about, because I do, but feeling comfortable enough with yourself to be completely alone is something I take great solace in. Hopefully, I will still be able to find peace and serenity in being alone when I’m old and grey but at least I’ll have all that unused college fund money to pay for a hella-hoppin’ nursing home! I think a lot of women, myself included sometimes, have a fear of being alone and have a strong desire to feel needed. Most women are able to achieve that feeling when they have a child (or at the very least, a childlike husband) who literally requires their attention and time every waking moment of the day to survive. For now, I’ll just have to settle for being needed by my cats when they want me to turn on the bathroom tap for them so they can play with the running water. I’m sure being a mom to fur-babies is just as rewarding, right? I have to give a huge shout out though to all the parents who are currently raising the future little hipsters of the world and the creators of the next big thing to be “small-batched”. I just know these kids are going to grow up to be even bigger assholes than all of their millennial parents are and I can’t wait to see what their causes will be. Truthfully, I’m glad that there are still people willing to overcome their selfishness to continue creating life and raising the children of the world. Maybe one day I’ll contribute to a child’s life in some small (or large) way but for now, the only buns you’ll ever see in my oven, are Cinnabons.

xo

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