For most of my 33.5 years on this planet, I was absolutely convinced that I would never have kids. I was pretty certain on this front. If someone asked me if I wanted to hold their baby, I would politely decline. I enjoyed kids in small doses, but I wasn’t a baby person, I didn’t dream about my future family, I wouldn’t be anyone’s first (or final) call for a babysitter.
Besides, so much of my life as I loved it was incompatible with little humans. I’m a nomad at heart. I like moving around and calling new places home. I love weekends spent drinking hot coffee in bed with a page-turning book. I prefer having a lot of money and time to myself. I really enjoy doing whatever I want whenever I want without having to worry about a nap time other than my own.
None of this is super conducive to being a parent, especially not to a small mischievous monster who is perpetually busy. And yet, my baby girl was wanted and not at all a surprise as some people who have known me for a long time have assumed. While I’m not always enthusiastic about giving up books in bed and weekends on the couch, sometimes I just watch her less and get what I want anyway. I’m mostly kidding. The truth is that I’m OK with the sacrifices because I’m a huge fan of my kid.
“Can you imagine if we had a kid that sucked?” R. and I often ask one another. I mean, I’m sure we wouldn’t think she sucked, but we would know if other people thought she did. People aren’t good at hiding their faces when your kid is heinous. Thankfully, E. is delightful, and people with zero skin in the game confirm our personal preference for the one we made. This is a relief because there are a lot of kids out there that do, in fact, suck.
One experience lately has confirmed what I long suspected on that front: Becoming a mother has not magically transformed me into a “kids person.” Quite the opposite. Other people’s kids often make me uncomfortable, and I don’t like being in places with the Bean where I must navigate a lot of interactions with children (and parents) I’ve never met.
On this, R. and I mostly agree. We spent last Saturday at Atlanta’s Wheelbarrow Festival. Honestly, don’t ask. There were only two wheelbarrows present: One was a planter, and the other was purely decorative. They had a cornhole tournament, two food vendors, two booze vendors, a handful of craft vendors, a cart selling popsicles. They had a .5k (not a typo) race that did not involve wheelbarrows in any way, so in addition to the festivities that were available, they also (as R. rightly pointed out) had a significant missed opportunity on their hands.
I bought earrings, and the Bean spent the entire time either sliding down a slide, swinging joyfully from a swing or getting in the way of rambunctious older kids who didn’t take four-and-a-half minutes to climb the stairs of the playground structure. She had a lovely time, despite the one little shit who kept trying to run her down or push her out of the way. R. was not having that. He wondered aloud if he was going to have to punch a child in the face.
I didn’t necessarily agree with the comment, but I fully understood the sentiment. He’s a protective girl dad. He’s protective of all his girls. When I was very pregnant in Austin, the three of us were walking around Lady Bird Lake when a disheveled man who was yelling nonsense about how he had invented “all the technology” turned to me and told me that my baby belonged to him. He was going to steal my baby like Rumpelstiltskin or something. I thought it was weird and retroactively hilarious. R. really did not share my perspective on that one. He got into it with the guy, and I know he will always be there to stand up for our kid when she’s being bullied, albeit not by slugging a child.
The point here is that I’m perfectly content to be a non-kids-person parent. If acting normal around a bunch of unknown little humans, some of whom are bound to be little shits, is the epitome of being a mom, then I don’t need it. I used to feel a certain kind of way about this ineptitude. Why didn’t some of this come naturally to me? But there are million reasons to feel inadequate as a mother and person in general. One must actively choose not to spiral. And I’m not going to lose my mind about this. That, my dear readers, is growth.
Yesterday, a friend mentioned her confirmed decision not to have kids. She said that in the past, she often felt defensive about it, like she had to defend this choice at every turn. Back when I didn’t want to have kids, I was always felt the same. I couldn’t just choose not to have kids. I had to viciously protect this decision against the idiots who believe that baby-making is a woman’s biological imperative and sole life’s purpose, the ones who think childless cat ladies are a drain on society.
But despite what you may have witnessed on the socials, nuance isn’t actually dead. We can be childless cat ladies who thrive, just as we can be moms who think some people’s naughty kids are a drain on society. We can be multifaceted. We can be picky about who we engage with, and we don’t need to apologize for the choices we make because we are the people who know ourselves well enough to make the right ones. The best thing we can do is own what we are, even the bits we wish weren’t true or hope to change eventually.
So, yes, I am a proud mama who deeply loves her Bean. I enjoy a lot of the children I encounter, while acknowledging that I do not share that same affection for so many others. I like kids, and I think they are (for the most part) wonderful, joyous beasties, but I’m not an every-kid person. I’d rather just worry about entertaining and parenting my own pint-sized monster without the other-kid factor at play.
And thank God for daycares filled with kid people, where E. gets all the other-child interactions she can handle while someone else plays defender and referee and loving advocate without the bias of liking one baby best. It’s OK if that person sounds like you or if you’re more like me. There’s a place for both of us on the playground, and there’s no need for us to shove one another around. We can both enjoy our individual rides down the slide. Don’t let anyone—especially not an accused couch-fucker—attempt to tell you otherwise.
With pleasure,
Yes, Misstrix
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