One of my husband and mine’s favorite topics of conversation, other than who’s turn it is to change the stinky diaper is why did we think having children was a good idea. Looking back we obviously based our decision on faulty Intel. I mean we completely lacked the foresight necessary to make a sound decision. It’s so obvious now that we bought the hype and drank copiously of the Kool-Aid. In order to be “complete” we must procreate!
The PR on babies is tremendous. I mean really! People would do anything for them. Pay any price imaginable and for what? A crying, puking, poop machine, that never sleeps! Sure they’re cute and cuddly but so is a puppy. And a puppy will never tell you it hates you no matter what. I have come to terms with the fact that my day is coming. Already at 4, 3, and 3 my children have perfected the sigh, eye roll combo. You know, the look that tells all parents, wordlessly that they are in fact the stupidest people on the face of the planet, and if given the right opportunity the child would dump you and leave you for dead on some abandoned road. Yes, my day too is coming.
Even PC (Pre-Children) my husband and I were never the most exciting of people. We didn’t hop flights to exotic lands at a moments notice. We were never on anyone’s VIP list, except each others. We were never really those kinds of people. I guess the descriptors, boring, normal, and safe might come to mind but we were okay with that. Although I do feel that because of the kind of lifestyle we led, and the upbringing we received we might have been predispositioned to procreate. Ya know, that whole wholesome, Bible-belt, lifestyle. I blame my parents really.
I was old having children. Early thirties before Myriam came around, and my parents had reached the desperation point. I remember the moment when it became all about the grandkids for them. My father, a very young looking Hispanic man and my mother a very white woman started asking when I thought I would settle down and give them some grandchildren. My pat response had always been, “Well, if you’re not too picky with the details I can probably have one for you in nine months or so.” That comment coming from his only, single daughter had always sent my father storming out of the room in a huff, mumbling things in a slurred Spanish not even other Spanish speaking individuals can understand. Well on this particular occasion, somewhere around my twenty-seventh year, my father with a serious look on his face said, “Could you at least make sure the guy is a nice little Mexican boy?” That look on my father’s face was the look of a desperate man.
It’s not like my husband’s side of the family was any better. Every time we visited his grandma’s house every person there wanted to know if we had any “announcements” we wanted to share. I’ve learned that if you hit 25 and are still single the looks of pity become common. And if you are older than 28 and married without children EVERYONE want to know what’s wrong! Looking back I sometimes wonder if we really had a choice in the matter.
Ya know, to this day I wonder why there isn’t some kind of test you need to pass before you have a baby. I mean I have to pass a drivers’ test in order to drive a car. If I want to own a handgun I have to file for a permit and get through a waiting period. I even have to fill out paperwork to vote. But for a baby you just have to neglect to have the guy pull out! There is no skill involved (Although, it helps! Am I right, ladies?), no feat of strength, not even an IQ test to administer. I mean if they had done a background check on my husband we’d have never passed! His drunken, high school and college, escapades are legendary! Item number one on my husbands bucket list remains: Get intoxicated and pass out on every continent. (Antarctica is the only one he has left.) It begs the question, why the hell did those nurses ever let us out of the hospital with a baby? I mean what were they thinking really?
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