A few weeks back I paid a visit to my ear, nose and throat doctor. It is Texas after all and I am always bound to have some kind of ailment. While I was in the freezing waiting room, I began to dose. Every so often I would pop open one eye and kind of look around to see who may have caught me jolting myself awake on occasion when I went too far into sleep. I noticed something as I did this little ritual — I was the only person in the room without a kid on my hip, on my lap or in a seat next to me acting up and hating life in the waiting room while throwing random toys around. First instinct: thank goodness. Second instinct:Why are there so many damn kids in here?
I found myself double checking where I was being that I had only seen this doctor one other time. Does he specialize in pediatrics or am I just not on the “birthin’ babies bandwagon.” Realizing that it must be the latter, I was quite fine not having a slobber machine with me. Don’t get me wrong, I love children. In fact I’m pretty great with kids. The place was filled with cute bundles of joy. And it was filled with the other kind — the ones that grow up and throw ADD fits in a corner while mom is saying, “You aren’t going to get to see Jimmy at tonight’s game if you don’t act right and finish your homework!”
I left the office after my appointment feeling free but weird at the same time. I’m 30. Am I supposed to have already been knocked up? Recently I had a conversation with a married friend. He is always saying, “Oh you say that now” when I say I don’t want children. I always want to say back to him, “No, I say it always. I don’t.”
And because I am so good with rug rats, I’m often asked, “Why don’t you want any?! You are so good with them.” I’m so good with them because at the end of the day, I don’t have to raise them. You do.
