When women reach a certain age, people always seem to have one question for them. “When are you having children?”
Since I’m a woman of that age, I’m going to answer this question for the last time. Never!
That’s right.
I don’t want kids.
After this past weekend, I realized that I don’t like them too much.
Most kids are cute as babies. But once they get up in age, they’re a headache. I don’t like cooking for myself, but this weekend in Atlanta, I found myself cooking for three kids–who according to their mothers shouldn’t have been hungry anyway. Then they wanted to watch the Kid’s Choice Awards when I was set on watching the NFL Network.
And what’s with the fucking questions? I couldn’t get a moment of peace. To make matters worse, I was trapped in the house with these kids and didn’t get a chance to go Downtown Atlanta this weekend. Because there was no way I was going to load those kids into my car and drive anywhere.
At least they weren’t mine. And thank God I don’t have any.
This article appears in Mar 26 – Apr 1, 2008.
