You know that childhood chant—first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a never-ending stream of poop that fills every square inch of your third floor walk-up apartment. I know that having kids would be an enormous undertaking that would affect my whole life; specifically the part of my life that involves cleaning feces off of furniture. The decision to have kids is a tough one—after all, I could much more easily soil the place with my own shit. There are so many factors to take into account when it comes to deciding whether to have children or just dook all over everything yourself. Here’s how things measure up for me:
My Biological Clock
Many people believe that there’s a biological clock present in all women, one that suddenly makes us put the freakum dress into storage, shack up with a decent guy, and push out an adorable bundle of poop. But is the “clock” even a real thing? Perhaps it’s not a baby we want, but an excuse to buy more Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. I mean, of course I want to spend my days and nights cleaning feces—what woman wouldn’t love that? But do I want to scrub for one or two? Am I ready for that level of responsibility? I need to listen to my body…and right now it’s telling me that there’s only room for oat bran muffins in there—not the grandchild my mother keeps asking for. Luckily, the muffins mean I’ll have the poop-covered house Ma longs for, regardless.
Children Are Our Future
Babies are the future, and, believe me, I would love to take part in the creation of the world’s next great pooper. But right now, I still have a lot of pooping to do myself.
People Without Kids Are Selfish!
A lady I work with said this to me once, and it really got me thinking…am I selfish for not allowing someone to help me splatter my entertainment center with diarrhea? There’s such freedom in joyously ruining the DVD player Kevin gave me on my own time, with my own runny shit. But when my friend Becky posts adorable snapshots of her little one having an assquake on the DVR with impunity, she seems to be taking just as much joy in the dumps of another human being. Am I not capable of that? Should I have a human baby to supply the food babies I’ll need for important revenge scenarios?
It’s All Worth It When It’s Your Own
Confession time: I sometimes worry that dropping the kids off at the pool and outside the pool day after day will start take its toll on me. Don’t get me wrong—a good bout of splatter, rinse, repeat fills me with transcendent joy, and who wouldn’t want twice as much transcendent poop joy? But it would be a big sacrifice. If I had a baby, I’d have to take some time out of my day to feed it so that we could both do that house-wide pooping. But people say it’s different when it’s your own. And when I consider the Hershey squirts I’m capable of now that I’m older and wiser, I start to wish I had someone to share them with, Those little babes would give me purpose every morning, especially after a cup of coffee.
For now, I know I’ve got a lot of single-pooping years left in me. Sorry, baby. Maybe someday.