Thursday, September 13, 2007

I am not broken.

There is nothing WRONG with me and I wish people would accept my thoughts instead of arguing with me about them.

Seriously. They're my thoughts, in my head, and I'm pretty sure I can voice them without help, thank-you-very-much.

What the hell are you talking about, you're asking.

Children. That's what I'm talking about.

I'd like to see the human being rule books that state all women MUST want to have children. I missed that chapter and apparently I'm about as good as a leper because of it. (Yes, lepers have feelings too!)

I missed the part that said having something the size of a cantaloupe shoved through a body part the size of a kiwi should be my life long dream.

I also missed the section that said giving up your entire life as you know it to produce said offspring made you a better person.

I don't get warm fuzzy feelings thinking of taking a screaming infant into a supermarket or restaurant. Nor do I get those feelings thinking of me covered in spaghetti-o's because junior just learned to flick food.

The lack of sleep, of which I'd *never* make up, does not have me all googly eyed at the prospect.

I should not be defined by wanting or not wanting to have children!

I know many women who *shouldn't* have had children, we all do, or have heard of them or read about them.

Which is better? One would think simply stating their preference to sustain from procreating would be a billion times better than having children and not giving them everything they need to grow up healthy, well mannered, intelligent, and not an asshole.

Wouldn't you think that?

But no. I'm instead looked at like Medusa - a horrific expression of disbelief, fear, and total lack of understanding mingled on their faces.


I recognize that my opinion might change. I don't happen to think so since it's been a pretty solid one for the last 17 years. However, I am a woman and I have the right to change my mind in a micro-second without telling a soul. Having your monthly menses does that to you.

(Don't believe me? You do it. Just once even, then come back and tell me it doesn't give me that right.)

So, I can see that I may, one day, fall deliriously in love at some point and truly feel the need to pop out a tiny representation of that love.

It could happen.

I think I may just want to go on vacation to Australia or some white-sanded beach with see-through cerulean water, drinking some fruity alcoholic concoction on a beach and having mad, passionate sex to celebrate that delirious love, but whatever.

Don't judge me because I don't fit what you think I should.

You go have a baby instead. I triple dare ya.


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