Just in case we weren’t clear, the following is a satire.
I like me.
No. I take it back. I love me.
I love everything about me. I have blue eyes, I’m tall, I’m fashionable, I’m a talented writer and musician, I’m extremely intelligent, I’m svelte, I’m funny, I’m witty. I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture.
To make an already-too-long story short (as if you could ever tire of hearing how great I am!), I know that my specific combination of genes and je ne sais quoi is, frankly, the among best that the world has seen. It would be tantamount to a crime to deny the world the perpetuation of my DNA.
Also, I like attention. I enjoy having every eye in the room on me, and before I had children, I couldn’t help but notice how everyone in the chapel turned to stare at the mother with the toddler screaming “MOOOOOOOOOORE WAAAADDERRRRRRR!” during the Sacrament.
Or how everyone in the quiet restaurant clucked at the mother with the five-year-old throwing his $7.99 macaroni and cheese on the floor. Or the surreptitious yet piteous glances at the mother whose teenage daughter will be having a baby of her own any day.
I couldn’t help but think, “Oh, if only I were that mother. Every eye would be on me!”
Let’s face it; mothers are a privileged class in our society. No one else demands the attention of a crowd like the mother with more small children than hands, especially if she should be lucky enough to have one run away or throw a tantrum.
No one else gets to sit at home eating ice cream for breakfast and watching oh-so-premium daytime television, and only be expected to explain to everyone outside their elite tier exactly what it is they do all day. No one else receives the admiration of peers and strangers, evident by such comments as “You certainly have your hands full!” and “Don’t you know what causes that?”
Speaking of which, mothers are never at a loss for conversation starters. Mothers have kind strangers approach them in public places to offer much needed and prized job feedback. Helpful soon-to-be-friends always know exactly where you could improve. (The less kind people just smile and nod, or offer a not-conducive-to-conversation “We’ve all been there.”)
Mothers get tax credits. They get to have the booths and biggest tables at restaurants; they can use handicapped ramps, door openers and elevators without guilt; they even get to board airplanes first! Little wonder I was so envious of mothers.
Lest I forget, there was a range of experiences I felt fundamentally lacking from my life. I’d never been puked on, peed on or pooped on. I had a queasy qualm about the sight of blood that I definitely wanted to resolve. And I’d never been to an emergency room.
I was getting entirely too much sleep, hadn’t had stretch marks since my preteen growth spurts, and had only ground a few pounds’ worth of food into my carpet.
The privileges our society unfairly reserves only for mothers begin as soon as one is visibly pregnant. Suddenly, people finally feel the license to address my weight gain, to touch my person without the pesky formality of asking permission.
In the end, I think it was a foregone conclusion that I would choose motherhood. Between bequeathing the world with the continuation of my genetic line, earning the admiration and attention of everyone within earshot (or macaroni and cheese range), and the fabulous conversation starters, how could I pass up this opportunity?
Why did you choose to have children? Please, leave only sarcastic answers here; we’ll try this again with sincere reasons later in the week!
7 replies on “Why I Chose to Have Children”
I chose to have children because the exciting prospect of listening to “melodious” screaming for hours without a hint at the cause (not hungry, not poopy, doesn’t want to go to sleep, doesn’t want to stand, or sit, or be put down…) was just too mysterious a challenge to pass up.
Good one! I always do like to put my detective skills to the test. (These days they’re most often used to detect dirty diapers and decipher which one is crying!)
I chose to have children because nothing pleases me more than doing the same thing over and over and over again. How I love repetition. Mothers are the only ones I knew of who got to clean the same room five times a day with nothing to show for it at the end of the day. They’re the only ones who really knew what toys are in the house, having picked up the same ones off the floor at least six times before lunch. They got to read the same story to semi-attentive ears until their throats were sore from saying the same words over and over. I wanted to have that kind of repetition in my life.
Plus, I was always curious what it would be like to be a human kleenex.
Before I had a baby I had no one to jiggle my belly (nor did I have a belly, really) and say, “I love your belly.” I had no one to call to me to wipe their bum when they pooped or rub their back when they were trying to poop. I’ve made sure never to mention that last trick to my husband because I’m pretty sure that it works and, now that I’m a mom, I don’t need to show him! I also missed the sense of being important every minute of 24 hours each day, especially when the bathroom door is closed. No one used to think that I was important then.
LOL! Love that last one. I sure didn’t need to use the bathroom by myself before I had kids; so glad I’ll never have to do that again.
I wanted to be part of the club! The nose-in-the-air you-have-no-clue-what-it’s-like club. To share the birthing stories, nursing nightmares, discipline challenges, etc.
I’ve been thinking of a post right on that subject: “how to make someone really uncomfortable.” I think a surprising proportion of the population is interested in that, considering how many people do it in just the ways you’ve mentioned.