(In) Labor Day
Friday night, Jay and I were at dinner with his parents and two of their friends who were expecting, and I was trying very hard not to make “that face.” You know, that scrunched up, eyebrows raised, grossed-out face I make when there is excessive talk of babies, birth, pregnancy, or anything of the sort within range of my baby-hating ears.
While we touched on many subjects, talk of those those 8-lb invalids reigned supreme. I sat in my chair, quality munching on corn chips, hoping that if I ignored the conversation long enough, it would just go away. No such luck. There were stories of breast feeding, “Give it a week, because sometimes the baby has trouble latching on”; jaundice, “We had to sit Jason out in the sun and keep flipping him every so often”; and labor, “After the first baby, the next few slide right on out.”
Yuck.
The baby conversation seems to follow me everywhere. Coworkers on maternity leave bring in their newborns for everyone to coo at. Hiding in your office with the door half shut does nothing to detour the new moms, who will knock on your door and shove the kid in your face, forcing you to spew the rigmarole: “Awww he/she/it is SO CUTE!” Twice a week on the morning commute I get stuck on the Metro car with the guy in the business suit, reading aloud to his 6-month-year-old blob. The women around me watch the father intently, salivating over the obtrusive scene.
If there is one place that should be completely baby-free, you’d think it would be my house, right?
Oh no, no, no. Of course not.
Jay and I had a contractor come by the house on Labor Day to give us an estimate on fixing up the basement. Yes, it’s a workout room, but it would still be nice not to have ghetto Berber carpeting and neon yellow and blue walls with clouds painted on the ceiling. We used him to remodel our bathroom last year, so he knew we were an unmarried couple living together.
Then he noticed the new jewelry.
“Oh you guys are engaged! That’s so great!” he gushed. “I’m sure your parents are thrilled since they’re probably old folk like me.”
“Yeah, they are happy,” I replied.
“Well, some advice for you,” he interrupted. “How old are you? 25, 26? Don’t wait much longer to have kids. Have kids right away.”
I cringed.
“Trust me, you don’t want to be 55 with a teenager to raise. You have more energy when you’re young, and then, by the time you’re 50, you’re done!”
“I really just don’t like kids,” I interjected.
He nodded. “Of course you don’t. You’re 25. I hated kids too, I never wanted them. Then I cheated on my girlfriend with my second wife and whoops! We had a boy 9 months later. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s hard at first, but the reward is worth the work. You’ll regret it if you’re 60 and childless.”
It’s an interesting topic because I know Jay wants kids, and I know the thought of kids makes me break out into hives. I can’t put my finger on exactly why either, which is interesting. It’s not like I have any commitment issues, and I like giving sage advice to preteens and teens going through for the first time what I’ve been through and back again. I just view a baby as a giant 9-ton ball and chain strapped to me. All it does is scream, I never know what the hell it wants, and end up just feeding it candy to get it to shut up, then it turns out that because of the candy appeasement I’ve raised a first-class (not to mention fat ass) brat.
I guess I better get used to the idea… I’m sure I’ll be fielding a lot more questions and speeches about children soon enough…
September 8th, 2007 at 3:06 pm
I’d really respect the repulisive feeling you have towards having children. It seems very real and intense and a perhaps a red flag as to what your decision should be one day. Not everyone is happy having kids, after all!