It's an interesting thing watching people with children.
Some of the time I think--Wow, how amazing to have this little person depend on you and love you unconditionally.
But most of the time I'm thinking--If I had to deal with that screaming monster for more than a minute, I'd find a basket and a nearby orphanage and call it a day.
Most of the time I'm happy to be single and childless.
People with children will tell you that if you don't have children, you're just missing out on this inexplicable, mysterious thing.
I think they like to play up the mystery of it, because the mystery is--there's no mystery.
The way I see it, you have kids, they create an unending amount of stress and heartache, tempered with ingratitude, peppered with adorable instances and a sentimental moments here and there to convince you that it's all worth it. Then they get married, have kids, and you have grandchildren who are now torturing your children the same way they tortured you.
It sounds more like a cycle of abuse than a circle of life.
I'm not trying to bash marriage and families--although, I guess I'm doing it unintentionally.
My point is, I get a little irritated when someone says there's something missing in my life, or that single people without kids have such lonely existences.
Let's get something straight:
Nothing's missing in my life.
I'm constantly busy.
And I have a nice quiet apartment I can go home to whenever I want.
And I'm thrilled about that.
Don't get me wrong. I'd love a little puppy or a fat baby to play with now and again, but that's what nieces and nephews are for.
I don't need all the bad stuff that comes along with it.
I have no urge to be puked on, or screamed at, or deal with a kid when they do that thing where their body goes limp so you can't pick them up and put them back in the mini-van all because they wanted a jar of chocolate-sugar sauce at the market.
Instead, I can see movies at midnight, eat peanut butter for dinner, vacuum when I want to, and plan a vacation without having to worry about how many bottles I can fit in a carry-on.
It's a good life. Maybe it isn't a life that'll lead to future generations looking at a portrait of me up in grand hallway (because clearly, I would foster rich, British children who would beget the same) getting all teary-eyed over their long-dead ancestor, but I guess we all have to make compromises.
And I'm okay with mine.
Some of the time I think--Wow, how amazing to have this little person depend on you and love you unconditionally.
But most of the time I'm thinking--If I had to deal with that screaming monster for more than a minute, I'd find a basket and a nearby orphanage and call it a day.
Most of the time I'm happy to be single and childless.
People with children will tell you that if you don't have children, you're just missing out on this inexplicable, mysterious thing.
I think they like to play up the mystery of it, because the mystery is--there's no mystery.
The way I see it, you have kids, they create an unending amount of stress and heartache, tempered with ingratitude, peppered with adorable instances and a sentimental moments here and there to convince you that it's all worth it. Then they get married, have kids, and you have grandchildren who are now torturing your children the same way they tortured you.
It sounds more like a cycle of abuse than a circle of life.
I'm not trying to bash marriage and families--although, I guess I'm doing it unintentionally.
My point is, I get a little irritated when someone says there's something missing in my life, or that single people without kids have such lonely existences.
Let's get something straight:
Nothing's missing in my life.
I'm constantly busy.
And I have a nice quiet apartment I can go home to whenever I want.
And I'm thrilled about that.
Don't get me wrong. I'd love a little puppy or a fat baby to play with now and again, but that's what nieces and nephews are for.
I don't need all the bad stuff that comes along with it.
I have no urge to be puked on, or screamed at, or deal with a kid when they do that thing where their body goes limp so you can't pick them up and put them back in the mini-van all because they wanted a jar of chocolate-sugar sauce at the market.
Instead, I can see movies at midnight, eat peanut butter for dinner, vacuum when I want to, and plan a vacation without having to worry about how many bottles I can fit in a carry-on.
It's a good life. Maybe it isn't a life that'll lead to future generations looking at a portrait of me up in grand hallway (because clearly, I would foster rich, British children who would beget the same) getting all teary-eyed over their long-dead ancestor, but I guess we all have to make compromises.
And I'm okay with mine.
Comments
Post a Comment