When people ask me whether I love having children, my answer is always conflicted. Truly, I love having children. It’s my vocation, my life; it’s what I signed up for. There would be no magic for me without my children showing me the world through their eyes and helping me understand the value of nature more deeply. They also bring back memories of how I saw the world as a little girl, like when I was four and mesmerized by a Christmas tree that actually grew its own candy.
A house without children would be, would be… quiet! I would die in a quiet house. Granted, I could play the music I wanted without a nine-year-old DJ changing the songs. I could watch movies, listen to NPR and read without being ridiculously interrupted. I would barely have to clean, and my beloved objects wouldn’t “get broke all by themselves.”
There would be no Koala bumpers stuck to our beautiful new wood floors and no boogers or bottoms to wipe. I wouldn’t walk into a bathroom to find a dump the size of a large colon curled around the toilet.
I could feel sexy, strut around the house in lingerie and lounge in seductive poses on all-white furniture when the mood struck. There would be no processed food in the house. I would sleep, and best of all, I would share more intimate moments with Baddy, and perhaps we would no longer have to resort to heavy groping in closets, bathrooms or alleys when out on the town!
Without children, my purpose might shift to something less valuable. I would see things differently and perhaps not so optimistically. I might not care so much about trying to revive our planet so my children won’t suffer when I’m gone.
If I were asked whether I would do it all over again, knowing what I know now, my answer would be a definitive, resounding yes. Baddy’s answer might be slightly different.
