I’m at that age where all my friends are getting pregnant. I’ve heard the birthing war stories, the bodily complaints, and have been subjected to, on more than one occassion, the flashing of breasts when babies start to cry. This behavior from women I’ve known my whole life who have not even changed their shirt in front of me are now letting it all hang out.

While I really want children some day, I’m having none of this preganancy business. This sister is not playing ball, in fact, I’m taking my marbles and leaving the playground.

To anyone who knows me, this is not news. I’ve been saying this since I was child. Pre-sex education, when I believed that babies came from a stork, I secretly grabbed my brothers’ baseball and hid in the garage vowing to shoot down any large birds that came even remotely near our house.  Actually, when the nuns finally enlightened me at school with the sex ed lecture, I promptly went home and told my mother, at the ripe age of ten, that I wanted a hysterectomy. She didn’t even blink at her child knowing the word “hysterectomy” and calmly told me I would change my mind.

 24 years after that day, I haven’t even come close.

The whole idea of it just grosses me out. I mean, 3 millions years of evolution and this is the best we get? It’s uncivilized. Honestly, if we were even remotely evolved as a species, the Bill Cosby theory of the polaroid baby would have come to fruition by now. Push a button and fashooozt-twenty seconds later-baby.

My main complaints about the whole process are as follows: 

1. Weight gain (obvious, but there you have it)

2. People and doctors all up in your business (I recognize the medical necessity, but ewwww)

3. Random strangers patting your stomach like a happy Buddha (buddy, you wanna keep that hand then you better stick it back in your pocket!)

4. Pre-natal lack of sleep. Never mind being fat with swollen ankles, you can’t freakin’ sleep before you won’t sleep for the next 18 years! A bit unjust I say.

5. The birthing process (again, ewwwww!)

6. Did I mention that people are all up in your business? Everyone tells me you lose your sense of modestly when you get pregant, but dammit, I like mine right the hell where it is. After confirmation of pregnancy, all women should be issued a GPS with their modesty duly marked.

7. Two words: “mucus-plug” and “afterbirth”.

And who are these women who skip drugs when delivering? Are you out of your freakin’ minds? Childbirth hurts!! Have an epidural already! Have four! I gotta tell you, I have all the respect in the world for the gal who foregoes the typical, schedules the c-section and tries to retain some modicrum of control. I’ve seen the birthing videos, it’s not that miraculous. Knock my ass out and wake me when there’s a kid.   

And this whole “earth-mother”, doula, grunge-hippy, have your baby in a water tank approach wigs me even more. It’s not as though I don’t appreciate the creation of life from the feminist point of view, I really do. Creativity, in my opinion, is inherently female, once they perfect that process of attaching a fetus to the male liver for gestation, successfully, then men can talk about being creative. And this notion of prositution being the world oldest profession is absolute bullshit. Ask any anthropologist and they’ll tell you it’s midwifery. But I still don’t want to get pregnant.

So my likely option is adoption. Which is fine, I prefer nuture over nature, and any natural-born kid of mine is likely to turn out to be an asthmatic, allergic, juvenile delinquent anyway, so the devil I don’t know in this instance is much preferred. Not to mention the idea of a child alone in the world out there waiting for someone to give them love and a home can really change your perspective on how great your genes are and is a the true test of whether you can transcend the vanity of your own DNA. 

But what really appeals to me about adoption is the efficiency of it all. You slap down your money and you pick out your model, make, color and year. No getting fat, no one up in your business, no labor, and you get to experience the miracle of chance, or fate, or destiny, or however else you would like to describe the unexpected that floats your boat. 

Oh, and most importantly, no maternity clothes and no Happy Buddha.

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