The Pull
I don't know if there is something wrong with me sometimes. I wonder if there's a swtich that hasn't been thrown. Or if there is something, deep down, that is defective. Or missing. Or that hasn't quite grown in or filled out. Because I keep thinking that...this thing? The thing I'm supposed to be doing? And I'm not? Should I be missing it? Because I don't think that I am. And I don't know if that means that there is something wrong.
That thing? A child.
People want one. They want one so badly they'll endure shots. And pills. And invasive procedures and special underwear and, according to an episode of Coach, cold water running around their testicles.
Is that right? Or am I wrong for thinking that's not right?
I know, emperically, that people should want children. We want to continue the species. We want to pass on our genetic markers. We want to create a living symbol of our love for another person. We want someone to do chores around the house and support us in our dotage. We want grandchildren to spoil. We want immortality.
And I completely envy and am amazed by those people who have children. Who endure the crying at 3 a.m. Either because the baby is hungry or because the teenaged girl just got dumped by her boyfriend. I'm amazed at folks like Dooce who have children and fight through the maze of post-partum depression and still want more. Who can separate the love for their child from the hell they went through to have them in their lives. Because some people can't. And those people? Are really bad parents.
I don't know if I'd be good at it. I think I'm too selfish. I know I'm too poor. I think of all the things in my life that I'd have to give up. All the things I really like. Red wine. The remote control. Uninterrupted sleep. The freedom to leave my house for the weekend at a moment's notice.
It would be easier if there was someone to share the pain with. If I was with someone, someone who was willing to go through all that with me, it would be easier. Doing it now? Is like looking into the maw of the sand creature in Return of the Jedi. There is no escape. And it isn't pretty.
But even if I was with someone? Would it be different? I honestly don't know. One guy told me he'd been snipped and, if that was a problem, there it was...out there. And...really? It wasn't. Then there was the other guy who said that a family and having kids really meant the world to him. And...that didn't necessarily bother me, either.
I just hate being so wishy-washy on a point that so many others feel so passionately about. But I don't want to have a child simply to have a child. So I can join in the conversations my friends have about breast feeding or epidurals or getting the kid to sleep. So I can say, "If I had a child, I'd never let him do [insert horrible thing]" with some semblence of authority. So, instead, I just avoid those conversations. Because I can't tell whether they are conversations I'll ever want to have. Or be able to have.
That thing? A child.
People want one. They want one so badly they'll endure shots. And pills. And invasive procedures and special underwear and, according to an episode of Coach, cold water running around their testicles.
Is that right? Or am I wrong for thinking that's not right?
I know, emperically, that people should want children. We want to continue the species. We want to pass on our genetic markers. We want to create a living symbol of our love for another person. We want someone to do chores around the house and support us in our dotage. We want grandchildren to spoil. We want immortality.
And I completely envy and am amazed by those people who have children. Who endure the crying at 3 a.m. Either because the baby is hungry or because the teenaged girl just got dumped by her boyfriend. I'm amazed at folks like Dooce who have children and fight through the maze of post-partum depression and still want more. Who can separate the love for their child from the hell they went through to have them in their lives. Because some people can't. And those people? Are really bad parents.
I don't know if I'd be good at it. I think I'm too selfish. I know I'm too poor. I think of all the things in my life that I'd have to give up. All the things I really like. Red wine. The remote control. Uninterrupted sleep. The freedom to leave my house for the weekend at a moment's notice.
It would be easier if there was someone to share the pain with. If I was with someone, someone who was willing to go through all that with me, it would be easier. Doing it now? Is like looking into the maw of the sand creature in Return of the Jedi. There is no escape. And it isn't pretty.
But even if I was with someone? Would it be different? I honestly don't know. One guy told me he'd been snipped and, if that was a problem, there it was...out there. And...really? It wasn't. Then there was the other guy who said that a family and having kids really meant the world to him. And...that didn't necessarily bother me, either.
I just hate being so wishy-washy on a point that so many others feel so passionately about. But I don't want to have a child simply to have a child. So I can join in the conversations my friends have about breast feeding or epidurals or getting the kid to sleep. So I can say, "If I had a child, I'd never let him do [insert horrible thing]" with some semblence of authority. So, instead, I just avoid those conversations. Because I can't tell whether they are conversations I'll ever want to have. Or be able to have.
posted by Miss Head at
2:39 PM
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