As should be well-established by now; we do not have kids. We have a lot of friends who have kids, but we, Kevin and I, have none. This is for no particular choosing of ours, it’s just the way it is.
This childlessness will forever be at odds with the other side, it seems. I have experienced being given a real bollocking for not having them for apparently that is my sole function in life; to have babies. I have also been subjected to the self-righteous mother who poured scorn on my head for not having child-proofed every corner of my home prior to her visit with her toddler. When I added insult to injury by refusing to let her baby play with Kevin’s Hi-Fi she did what any righteous mother would do – she left. After all; I was stinting his naturally explorative nature and probably causing untold damage to his development. That she would have had to give up her house to pay for the possible damage the toddler could have caused…
I realize that I am treading on red-hot coal here and risking further scorn poured over me for what I am about to say, if not for what I have already said. Well, tough shit.
I feel incredibly uncomfortable around kids. And this feeling gets worse the smaller they are. Hey, as a kid I was uncomfortable with myself, and I didn’t particularly like playing with other kids. I preferred the company of adults even as a four-year-old. Other kids generally seemed to be noisy and sticky, and that was all.
I have gone to great length to combat this. I babysat my sister’s first-born from she was a couple of weeks old and have followed her upbringing closely since then. I adored her then, I adore her now that she is on the brink of legally being able to both smoke, drink and do other things that parents dread. She was just about the cutest baby I have ever seen, and the funniest, most loving and lovable and oh-what-a-great-personality that kid had – and has! Yes, I changed her nappies and all, without objection, and battled with her over nap-times (I won!) and fed her things she spat out all over the place. And took her to the local park where we looked at ‘ananas gås’ (Canada Geese, mis-interpreted into having something to do with pineapples/ananas). Later she became my all-time favourite model, willing to be smeared in silver paint all over and have her hair greased down for the sake of Art, modelling with a patience worthy of a REAL supermodel.
But. She has proven to be the exception to confirm the rule. I can’t come to terms with the violence demonstrated by my sister’s two sons, my gorgeous nephews. And I’m dreadful with kids I don’t know in general, kids that produce unexpected, LOUD noises or fall on you or drop things on you or cover you in sticky things or say something you really have no idea how to respond to or, god forbid, expect you to PLAY with them. When some sticky kid approaches me with an empty, tiny, plastic cup from some toy-set offering me pretend tea or something – I WANT TO RUN A MILE! I just can’t help it. I don’t mind baby pictures, but I do mind baby pictures that include drool or baby covered in its latest meal. Or covered in snot. And I have heard that there can be a lot of snot. Runny orifices make me gag. And I really can’t help it. I try to stop it, desperately. I briefly close my eyes, take a deep breath, look away and fight the inclination to throw up there and then. And mostly I succeed and just come across as this prudish, child-less (oh poor woman) middle-aged spinster who hates kids.
Which I don’t. I just don’t know how to deal with them. But even more; I have no idea how to deal with their parents. Because the kids seem to be ok with the fact that I can’t deal. It’s the parents that take offence, grave offence, as if my inability to cope is something I do to, well, offend them. On purpose. With malice. And then they say things like; just wait until you get your own, then you’ll understand. But what exactly am I supposed to understand? That your life was turned on its head when you had kids? That kids poop, drool, snot, scream and put all sorts of little things into their mouths because that’s all part of the deal? That you NEVER get a break because, guess what, you can’t give them back? That you haven’t slept for months since the baby was born and you can’t wait to watch me go through the same?
Well, I apologise here and now for being childless, and for remaining childless. There are a hundred reasons for this state, and none of them are your business. But not having kids does not make me a bad person. Or a criminal. Or in league with the devil. It’s just the way it is. And I’m really sorry that this means that I am likely to loose touch with most of my female friends with babies, possibly for good. They have entered into a world that I neither can or have any desire to be a part of. I accept that their worlds have changed drastically; they must accept that mine hasn’t. I don’t expect them to be even remotely interested in the events around our MG, or our wish to get a dog, or any other part of my life. They will just have to accept that talking to me about the texture of their babies’ pooh is a complete waste of time. THAT IS WHAT OTHER PARENTS ARE FOR. Not your childless friends.
Having kids is the norm. I accept that. And I observe with unabashed envy people who are really good with kids (have met a couple of those lately – my god, David! you’re a scream!) and I wonder how they broke the code. But I am no Alan Turing. I am destined to spend my life not having a clue how to deal with kids – or their parents. That code is not part of my world. No more than I will ever be interested in sports. Sorry, Kevin! You can tell me all about Frankie Dettori’s first ever Derby win – and I will hear you – but I will not be able to match your level of enthusiasm. No chance. I hope your throat isn’t hurting too much from the screaming. One day we will have to get you to a live race. But feel free to go without me!
MidgetViking 