While society will say I’m doomed, feminists everywhere will applaud me for not conforming to tradition. But let’s get one thing clear first, none of this is political. I’m just terrified of toddlers. Hell, why stop at toddlers. Pre-teens, adolescents, young adults. My belligerence knows no bounds. I have been known to walk against oncoming traffic just to avoid large clusters of ‘youth’ approaching me on the pavement.
“I’ll be alright when I have my own.” I hear myself reassuring my mother far too frequently. I’ll be fond of mine because I can raise them to be as obedient, pleasant and musically gifted as the von Trapp children in public, whilst being as mischievous as Tracy Beaker when people aren’t looking (I won’t raise cotton-wool-kids, that’s for sure). But just when I think I might enjoy a future with mini-me’s, it dawns on me that I will have to endure OTHER PEOPLE’S offspring if I ever want mine to have something other than a stick from the garden for a friend. I then find myself desperately hoping my kids are social recluses so I don’t have to host endless Peppa Pig birthday parties and be responsible for all of the snotty-nosed creatures that attend them.
Going to the theatre is the highlight of my social life. An experience only cheapened by parents who think it’s a good idea to bring their 2 year old along - because culture is exactly what a 2 year old needs! The embarrassment must be excruciating when just as you settle into the show, your child exclaims at the top of their tiny little lungs that they need to alleviate their bowels. Having to squish past everyone because you decided to sit in the middle (what a great idea that was) and upon return the brat starts screaming, so you take them out again and bring them in once they’ve calmed down and you do it again and again until you’re just a spin and a shake away from doing the Hokey Cokey.
If I was that parent I’d lock it in the bathroom until it learnt it’s damn lesson. I will sacrifice no West End musical number for a progeny of mine.
So after deciding that children aren’t a priority for me (I probably won’t be allowed any after posting this), I’ve started to struggle to find the purpose of actively seeking a relationship if I have no desire to raise a family. The only thing codependency can do now is hold me back in life and suppress my weird side (because no one could handle the full extent of the hilariously quirky ideas that flutter about in my noggin) and as a result I have lost the ‘urge to merge’ I once had, meaning I can now go head-on into a life of exciting and spontaneous decisions with no one to compromise or accommodate for. For example, I could quit my job, move abroad, stop shaving my legs, become a pirate-ette and sail the seven seas with no one in my swipe radius to bother me with vulgar propositions or false pretenses. Or, more realistically, I could just go about my life but with a whole lot more me-time on my hands, not fannying about with school runs, homework-tantrums or nappy changes and some hefty savings from not splashing out on Furbies or Tamagotchis when they make a nostalgic comeback at five times the price, nor on private boarding school fees (dahhling).
I would like to take a moment to admire my sister. Her natural maternal instincts are incredible. Children love her and she loves them. She makes my tolerating face look about as welcoming as Obama congratulating Trump on winning the election. We couldn’t be anymore opposite when it comes to our opinion of babies and yet I’m excited to meet her future descendants. I’ll wear the title of ‘cool aunt’ like a badge of honour and teach them all the rude words, like ‘bum’ and so forth, as well as awkward things to say loudly to strangers like ‘when are you due?’ and ‘who were those people tied up in the boot of your car?’ (particularly poignant in a supermarket checkout). I’ll be the one to buy them pets on their birthday (bearing in mind my sister won’t even touch a guinea pig), take them for their first legal alcoholic beverage and accompany them on tinder dates from afar. They’re going to love me. My thriving relationship with my sibling and her spouse on the other hand, might suffer a little.
As a desperate attempt to summon some form of procreational desire, I decided to binge watch 13 episodes of One Born Every Minute last weekend. (Whilst it might baffle you to imagine I did this off my own back, to reassure you, I also enjoy watching Supernanny, just to watch kids get shouted at (ethically) for entertainment). The one thing I learnt from OBEM - that wasn’t how horrific childbirth is - was that ‘the second your little miracle enters the world, you realise how insignificant you are and how you'll never be a priority again’… I have some issues with this. Shocker.
First of all, at no point in my life do I ever intend to pretentiously describe myself to others as ‘insignificant’.
Secondly, as someone who openly admits to love being the centre of attention, much like Tinkerbell, I find children threatening to my spotlight and will DIE without frequent appreciation. They’re so narcissistic. Like, get over yourself, you can’t even tell the time.
Digression: Christmas is all about the kids and since growing up and accepting that I’m not the main focal point of the day, it’s safe to say that the celebrations have lost their flare. It was a bleak year when I realised that when it’s not all about me, Christmas is just family feuds and washing up, accompanied by Michael Bublé and a box of After Eights. - End of digression.
And lastly, to all parents who describe their children as “miracles”, I still find sea monkeys miraculous so you can piss off actually.
(And breathe…)
Since coming to terms with my hatred of small people, I’ve started to empathise with characters from my childhood such as Miss Hannigan, Miss Trunchbull and Meredith Blake from The Parent Trap. These women are now my idols. What’s happened to me.
And yet despite a moment of self-reflection and corrective action, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in the library developing my business plans for an orphanage and designing blueprints for a Chokey.
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