Recently, I’ve started to think that reproduction might not be the best option for my vagina and I. I’m not alone, which feels nice, as statistics are showing that a third of my generation agrees. Yes, of course, perhaps my opinion will change once I’m financially stable and bored, however, for the time being I’m going to pretend that this is the stretch-mark-free Emilie I’ll always be. “Blessings” come in various forms, people. Although the way I used to structure my families on Sims may tell a different story, finding out that motherhood was a choice vs. a default setting brought me serious relief. I think it comes as a shock to some since — well, before I get thru this rant anyway — I was a pretty good role model. Kids and I? We’re cool.
I think I feel the same way about kids as lesbians feel about straight men. I’m not going to be, like, upset if one sits next to me at my favorite gay bar. I mean, it’s kind of weird they’re there, but, cheers? Whatever. I can admit a handful are good looking, it’s kind of cute when they expect you to laugh at their corny jokes, sometimes they’ll do super inappropriate stuff like make dog noises and grab your butt without asking — but I don’t want one to call my own. And, I definitely don’t want to fuck one.
I remember asking my dad long ago why my aunts didn’t have kids. “Everyone doesn’t have kids, Emilie. Some people don’t want them.” I was confused. All of my peers had moms, so I assumed all grown women had, or would have, little humans like me. I guess my ego was a lot bigger than my 8 year old vocabulary as I truly believed it was common knowledge that driving someone like me to practice, doctor’s appointments, or a terribly produced play was way more fun than simply chilling at home. They’re old, I thought, their joy comes from me, right? One of those aunts I questioned owns a bar, has a pool, and looks 20 years younger than she is. She is, as they say, goals. I’ve learned that many women disagree, and they WILL tell me.
The most common negative feedback I’ll get from one of those “pretends she HAS to drive a minivan, but she actually lives for her Toyota Sienna” types is that I’m…selfish. Okay? And you reproduced because you think that shell top Adidas look cute when miniature. You know how many kids are in foster care, Sarah? Probably the same as the number of kids you wiped off your face or flushed down the toilet in college.
Let’s continue this talk about the joys of motherhood later. I’ll get out of my Planned Parenthood appointment around the same time your “God hates sluts” picketing shift is over, yea? Sarah dresses very conservatively now, by the way. She has to because otherwise her outfit would totally clash with her “Help After Abortion” bumper sticker. Sarah’s not an actual person, mind you, but we all know one of those white bitches. She took it up the butt in high school because “it didn’t count”, and she posts articles on Facebook all day that essentially read “black people don’t count”? You know one.
Right now being a parent, sorry, being a GOOD parent, would really intrude on my evening blunt sessions. I don’t have a farm; I don’t need an extra person to run the plow. Oh my god! If I started growing my own weed the kid could totally….never mind. I want a mid-life titty fund vs. a pay-for-my- average–kid- to-get-a-communications-degree fund. I don’t want to have to let my kid down when they say they want to go out of state like, “Honey, how about you save mom some money and excel at keg stands from home for the first two years, huh?” I’d rather be the cool aunt and when little Hayden/Jayden/Kaylen/Jaylen turns 13 he can join me in my blunt session. We’ll get stoned and talk about how hot his mom was before stretch marks and zero sleep. Oh no, karma is going to impregnate me.
My dog is practically a kid — an even greater blessing from God as he didn’t have to tear thru my lady parts to get here. He’s as smart as a 2 year old, 3–4 if we’re talking arithmetic, and, GET THIS — he doesn’t know how to complain. If I want to buy generic brand dog treats instead of the ones with the flashy commercials they make for the metro-sexual dogs, he just deals with it. He doesn’t compare his treats to the probiotic, all organic ones the schnauzer gets in the rich neighborhood down the street. He will NEVER come home crying because the clique of bedazzled Chihuahuas at the dog park made fun of his deformed nose. The closest thing to a science fair project we’ll EVER have to do is dissecting his poop to see which color socks he prefers to eat most. My hypothesis is that if I leave a dirty thong on the floor, it will take approximately 3 minutes for Bruno to sniff, chew, and swallow the crotch out of them! The best part? If he ends up getting some bitch knocked up as a teenager I won’t even be disappointed, I’ll be stoked! French bulldogs go for 2 G’s a pop!