The very idea of pregnancy and child birth gives me the creeps. For nine months, there is an organism living inside you. It eats what you eat. It kicks you. Eventually, it crowds all of your other organs together, making it nearly impossible to breathe or hold your bladder. In the scientific world, there is a name for this type of organism – a parasite. When I was in high school, we had to watch a birthing video in parenting class. I almost fainted when the baby started crowning. It was, to this day, the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.
As I got older, the maternal instinct never really kicked in. There were times I thought I wanted a child, but after a little soul searching I realized I didn’t want the baby for myself. I thought my husband wanted another child or I’d feel guilty that my mother was the only one of her siblings who wasn’t a grandparent.
In 2012, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I take some pretty serious medications to keep myself stable, and if I ever got pregnant, I would have to stop taking them. Not being on medication is dangerous for someone with bipolar, but add that to the pregnancy hormones and there’s no telling what would happen. It’s a very genetic disease, so the chance my child would also have it is substantial. I also have other health conditions that I wouldn’t want to pass along. I’m a genetic landmine.
I’ve realized I’m too selfish to be a parent. I like my free time. I like being able to sleep as late as I want on my days off and being able to run errands without lugging a screaming child and a diaper bag with me. When I get home from work, I can take half an hour to decompress without hurting a child’s feelings because mommy just wants to be left alone.
Babies are cute (sometimes). I like when they are dressed in little blue jeans or khakis and are toddling around, laughing and squealing. I still won’t go within ten feet of them unless I absolutely have to because they aren’t always laughing. When the laughing stops, I want them to be someone else’s problem.