Broke-Ass Uterus (& Other Concerns I Have About Parenthood)
I’ve rounded the number of concerns I have about parenthood down to a nice manageable, even number so that this post isn’t a ‘Game of Thrones’ size novel of neurosis. Suffice it to say, I’m a tad nervous about growing a human inside me at some point during the next decade of my life.
I’ve never felt the urge to grow a human life inside of me - and thankfully, science has made it possible that regardless of the kind of relationship I’m in, I won’t have to. But I do know that I do want kids. First of all, I’m too stressed out about living into my old age without ensuring that there is a young, spritely version of me to care for me. Secondly, I’d be a dope parent once the initial shock and anxiety of being responsible for another human soul wore off. That responsibility scares the living daylights out of me, especially now that that future is in the not-so-distant future. I’ve only just learned to take a dog for a walk without having a nervous breakdown, and started feeding myself like a human that cares about living but still defaults to KD on occasion. I’m 30-fucking-years old…
Sometimes I think about what kind of parent I’ll be, and I am immediately haunted by the ghosts of 4 tamagotchi pets I owned in 1997. I was 11 years old with literally nothing else going on, and was already neglecting the only thing I was responsible for. Ever since, I’ve been afraid that I’d be one of those women on the 6 o’clock news that you shake your head at in disgust when you find out she accidentally suffocated her kids in the middle of an epic cat nap. However, I’ve often been told how great I am with children, and I am often requested to babysit them. I always make up an excuse – not because I don’t like these people, but because I’d rather not kill their precious babies.
Even if I am 100% sure I want kids, I’m almost 100% certain that nothing could live inside my uterus anyways.
“Fertile” is the last thing that comes to mind when I think about my baby oven. I think of an elephant graveyard. A haunted house. Dead patches of grass. A tumbleweed. Wind howling like blood thirsty wolves. Broken Christmas lights. It’s a really run of the mill fantasy for me. Why? Well, for one, I’ve never had a regular period in my life. My uterus is like a renegade that plays by its own rules, and likes to really fuck with my emotions. I’ve never not had a pregnancy scare. Even in my queer life where there’s literally no risk of getting pregnant the old fashioned way, I have straight PTSD whenever I miss a period. It happens every month. If it started showing up regularly now, it would just make me suspicious – like a philandering husband that all of a sudden shows up with a dozen red roses.
Despite its flaws, I have a conspiracy theory that my uterus is a secret genius – a rain man type character with a magical douchebag detector. I believe that my uterus is synced up with the cosmos to prevent my vagina from making bad decisions. My uterus has thwarted most of my would-be indulgences in youthful promiscuity. I used to believe that I was cursed with an un-cooperative cycle, but as I have grown older, I have to hand it to my uterus for saving us what could have been a long list of regrets. However, this superpower may very well mean that even if I did have a fully-functioning uterus, I might not even get it on enough times on purpose to give this baby-maker a fair shot.
Considering all the factors outlined here, I have to assume that if I ever have a baby, it will be a miracle baby. I will name it “Angel” and hope it doesn’t become a stripper.
Fickle uterus aside, part of me also doesn’t understand parenthood completely at this time in my life. I don’t understand it the same way I don’t understand people who run marathons. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Like, why? It seems like a lot of effort to just be tired and sore in the end. At least marathons give you a medal after you belligerently cross that finish line. There is no finish line for parenthood. You just die. That’s it. And then your kids fight over your warm corpse for their reward that they, for some inexplicable reason, feel they are entitled to, simply for having had to endure your blood, sweat, tears, and (most importantly) incessant judgment and nagging all these years. What a shitty marathon.
Why do people do this very important thing? Biology? The need to transfer their skills to a new generation? Boredom? To save their marriage? To finally trap that hottie that’s totally out of your league? Whatever the reason, my concerns remain the same.
How Do You Know That You’re Ready To Have Kids? I suppose I’ll know I’m ready to have kids when my reaction to finding out I’m pregnant isn’t the same as my reaction to finding out I have Cancer?
Who Will Clean Up After Me After I Clean Up After My Kid? This is actually a serious question. I’m a messy roommate. Two messy roommates can’t co-exist peacefully. Speaking from experience, of course I’ll be the one forced to keep us from living in squalor, and I will resent it every day of both our lives until one of us finally gives up on the other and moves out in a huff and a puff.
What If My Eggs Are Rotten? I drink, a lot. If anything can live in there with the hell I’ve put it through, I’m fairly certain if I ever give birth, it will be to Quasimodo – a mutant child that I will love, but the children at school may not be so forgiving.
What If My Kid Is A Serial Killer? This is something that would potentially keep me up at night every night for the rest of my life if I ever had kids. What if I don’t love them enough? What if I love them TOO much? What if that drives them over the edge and they become some sort of Norman Bates type character that’s got tons of mommy issues that I can’t even defend myself against because my kid is a serial killer and now everyone else hates me too? Do I change my name, flee the province? Where would I go? Manitoba? Saskatchewan? These all sound like places people go to hide dead bodies. Would I still love my child even if they did horrible things to other people’s children? If my child is a serial killer, would that make me a latent serial killer? WHO AM I?! Oh my gosh, this is so stressful.
What If I’m One of Those Annoying Social Media Moms? Ugh, what if I overexpose my kid on social media and alienate myself from everyone I know except my kids? What if my kid totally hates finding albums and albums of baby pictures on the Internet for the whole world to see – including their new crush at school? What if they hate me for Facebook stalking their conversations with friends and leaving comments on posts that aren’t relevant and/or really don’t make any sense at all? I don’t want to be that one, but I’ve seen so many cool chicks fall down the rabbit hole of social media parenting. Were they like this all along and just didn’t know it yet? Or is “mommy brain” - a very real affliction that changes everything the moment you give birth?
What If My Kid Finds Out How Incompetent I Am Who I Really Am? I think the worst thing in the world could be learning that your parent is basically bullshitting everything. How do you maintain your authority when your child learns you are exactly like them, except not to scale?
Will The Birth of My Beautiful Child Mean The Death of My Vagina? This thing has a lot of mileage to go, I really don’t want to merk it too early in the game if you know what I mean. And why do people even grow babies inside of them anymore? Aren’t there machines for that? Sure, back in the day, those machines were called “women” but then they became sentient beings that vote and even run for president! (Not that those things seem to matter too much these days, but we do them, and that’s the important thing!) Now, we have actual machines that will do this for us, so why don’t we all just…do that…?
What If My Child Is A Whore? I know this is the kettle calling the pot black but still. What if my kid is some kind of sexual deviant? Worse yet, what if my kid turns out to be some kind of oversexed, vapid, blank slate of a human being with the listless eyes of Melania Trump? I can’t do math. What if I can’t teach my kid math, and then they just start skipping school to screw the school toilet seat. Worse yet, what if my child is the school toilet seat?
I don’t mind a moderate whore. A whore who is a whore maybe 40% of the time, but still has their priorities in check. In fact, I prefer to have a child that’s not afraid to explore their boundaries and bodies. That’s a beautiful thing. But what if I can’t have the sex talk with my kids because it’s too awkward, and they just go off and do it without asking any questions, like they’ve got mommy and/or daddy issues?
Alternatively, what if I talk to them about sex and then think it’s okay to go off and let everybody in their special places? What if they grow up and read this post and are emotionally scarred from reading it, and then go screw some stranger to forget it all, and then get pregnant and ruin their perfect life? I can’t deal with knowing what my children can do with their bodies. I don’t want to hear about it, but obviously my imagination will paint a much more grotesque version of events than any conversation would – so I’m kind of in between a rock and a hard place here.
What If I Turn Into My Mother? This actually wouldn’t be a terrible thing. My mom has turned out to be a straight G in motherhood. She’s never been on social media once in her life, and she makes parenting seem effortless. My brother is currently 20, and she’s got this bitch on auto-pilot. However, I still have memories of looking into her eyes with genuine fear, causing me to elect hiding in an actual and metaphorical closet for the duration of my childhood. What if my kids look at me with that kind of fear? What if I’m not the “fun” one? What if I’m a terrible Mama Tong?
What If I Actually Hate My Kids Other Mom? I generally like people for a maximum of 7 years, and then they start to annoy me. So, there’s no guarantee that I’ll like my kids other parent, especially in this day and age where most people have a very loose definition of monogamy and tend to be flaky in general. All this considered, and adding the fact that I’m prone to bad decision making, there’s a real chance that this person will be trash. Do I tell them that their other parent is trash, or do I let them figure it out on their own and be heartbreakingly disappointed? When is a good time to let your kids know that their co-creator is a garbage person? Do we stay together for the kids, or split up and try co-parenting? I’m not very good at sharing. This parenting stuff is complicated.
What If My Child Wants To Play Hockey? Or really, any sport that involves waking up at 5 AM every day of the week? Unless they are the next Sidney Crosby, I don’t think I should have to wake up that early so they can hurt themselves, the end result being that I’ll have to do more work. That doesn’t seem fair to me.
What If My Child Straight Up Hates My Guts? I’m very much a tribeswoman. If I ever have a family, I hope that no one will hate each other. Conflict is my worst enemy, and any sort of animosity makes me feel physically uncomfortable. If my kids ever actually hated my guts, I think I would want to cry my eyes out every night. How and why would I bring some person into the world that was just going to make me miserable and sad? Nah, B. That’s not my jam.
I suppose having a family is something that you just grow into feeling capable of handling. I love my family, and if I ever have one of my own, I can only hope I can in some way re-create the sort of home my parents gave me and my brother. It’s hard to imagine that my parents were ever not my parents – that they were once young, bright-eyed, and (most of all) scared shitless of raising kids themselves. Who knew they’d be so dang good at it. Maybe, with a little marathon training and a little luck, I’ll have this baby thing in the bag when the time is right. Not now though. Please God, not now.