On Why I’ll Never (probably) Reproduce

I have a weird ritual that forces me to go to the local Wal*Mart everyday after my last class. Maybe it’s the OCD, maybe it’s the compulsion I’ve had since age 3mos. to spend extreme amounts of money on…junk, or maybe it’s because I am buying all the cereal with Star Trek pictures/offers on them, or maybe, just maybe it’s to remind myself (when I’m feeling particularlynesty“) that children are a nightmare. 

Today during my Wal*Mart experience was particularly harrowing, with many children being the express cause of it, of course. 
It all happened when I walked in and saw a tragically ugly Idaho family. The parents were tolerable but those poor children were just begging for a stint on “Extreme Makeover” in 20-30 years. Now, permit me a moment of shameless pride (not that I need to ask your permission) I come from what horse people or… cow farmers would call “good stock”. I have two younger sisters and I would wager that compared to most families we turned out darn pretty. We all had our ugly stages between 8 and 12, yes, but we turned out to be some lookers. Not all families turn out three consecutively pretty girls…there is some law of Physics against it or something. Sadly, the looks of your kids are totally up to fate. It’s this little creature hiding out in your stomach for 9 months and when it pops out you just have to take what you get. 
SCARY!
Knowing that there are people out there like me (or my father who says all babies look like shrunken monkeys, or my Grandmother, who called my cousin “An…interesting looking little boy) is factor #1 for not having kids. I don’t want to walk by people in Wal*Mart, kid in tow and have to constantly think “OMIGOSH I hope people aren’t saying bad things about my little boy”…because if said baby is ugly, the general public will be silently judging me and my baby but they will be nice and google at him and tell me how cute he is. 
And the whole time I’ll have to think…”I’m his mom and I know he’s not a looker” which is basically psychological child abuse.

This image does not effect me anyway. 
No yearning in this uterus for any of these “bundles of joy”.
I’m told most people find this picture “cute” or “precious”
Weird.
***
Another reason, if you couldn’t infer, is that I would prefer to have boys. I’m too insecure to have to compete with a daughter… even if she was unfortunate working. 
Besides, boy’s have potential for better names. 
***
Another instance today at Wal*Mart made me want to go crazy. I actually texted something to my best friend which included the words “parents” “no control” “executed”. I wasn’t serious, of course, but I happened upon the lovely scene of two little kids squeezing all of the squeaky doggy toys over and over and over and over and over again. Thier parents were no where to be found, until I turned down the isle and saw mom with three other kids shoved in the cart comparing lotion varieties. 
Number One, that momma should have had a leash on those kids because they were loud and the doggy toys were loud. 
Number two, she had five kids under the age of 7. 
That’s a no-no in my book. 
It’s called family planning.
Enough said.
***
Kids are also messy. Sticky. Crumby. If I haven’t mentioned it before, and I know I have, I’m an extreme clean freak. Like, wash my hands 34,204 times a day and dust like a machine, clean freak. Kids are just an added hassle in my never ending crusade to keep things orderly.
Also, kids expect you to entertain them. I am genuinely bad at entertaining toddlers, kids, teens… I’ve tried it. I fail. Always. 
My kids would be expected to talk to me on a high-school level… not happening when they are 5, me thinks.
***
Finally, I’ve never felt particularly maternal. I do not get emotional or jealous while watching TLC’s “A Baby Story” like my roommates. It looks painful, nasty and just stressful.
I’d probably screw up any kids I had anyway, so I won’t try for it… but check on me in 10 years and you’ll probably see a person who has given up showers and intelligence for sitting at home with my rugrats (but no more than four, please, future husband. Whoever you are).
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