Don't Ask Me About No Damn Kids Over the Holidays
“I’m not getting any older Eve.” I knew what the next sentence was going to be. In fact, I mouthed them with her as she said, “It would be nice to have some kids to play with while I’m still able to do so.” What started out as subtle comments about Gymboree outfits and children’s toys has quickly turned into blatant questions and comments about the status of my uterus. I know that with the holidays approaching, it will only get worse. To that extent, I’m sending this article to my mother, my cousins, and every single person who plans to sit their fat ass down at our kitchen table over the holidays. In the subject of my emails and text, I plan to write in all caps, “DON’T ASK ME ABOUT NO DAMN KIDS OVER THE DINNER TABLE.”
On some level, deep down (wayyyyy down in my soul) I understand my parents’ desires. They’re getting older, and while my mother has been retired for years, I know that it will only be a matter of time before my father does the same. I know that my parents will be amazing grandparents, and any child that I pop out will be loved, adored, and absolutely spoiled rotten. I want to give them a grandchild. Hell, I think about it every time I see a baby announcement cross my timeline. HOWEVER, my life is a complete shit show.
I’m always two seconds away from quitting my job and selling pictures of my feet to pay the bills. At least one night a week, I get completely drunk on red wine and pass out in my underwear on my couch. Sometimes, there’s water involved, but it really depends on whether or not I remembered to replace my Brita filter. I spend too much money on clothes, I’ve never met a Happy Hour that I haven’t liked, and I’m pretty sure I found Boom-Chicka-Pop kernels in my bed sheets the other day. What more evidence do you need? I’m a disaster. If I can’t take care of myself, how in the hell am I going to take care of someone else?
When I was younger, my parents were all about academic achievement, academic excellence, and academic superiority. If you don’t understand the profound difference between the three, then congratulations, you had a normal childhood. You’re probably not riddled by anxiety or crippled by depression. Good for you! Me, on the other hand? My parents forced my head into books, projects, and reports so much that I came to live, breathe, and eat academia. At some point, things went from, “Don’t worry about boys, just keep your head in those books,” to “Girl, pull your head out of those books and worry about a damn boy.” But you said don’t worry about them!
With every holiday that passes, I know that my family, nuclear and extended, are looking to me to have a kid. It doesn’t matter to them that I have an older brother who is wayyyy past his birthing age. He’s right there, why don’t you ask him? This man has managed to do everything bad EXCEPT impregnate a woman. Instead of pestering him about sowing his royal oats somewhere, ANYWHERE, they would rather ask me dumb ass questions like, “Do you have a man, Eve?” Do you see one, Aunt Josephine? Questions about my career or life in general are completely ignored for checkups on the state of my uterus. And no, they don’t care about my painful periods, raging hormones, or latest results from my intravaginal ultrasound. They just want to know when something is going to pop out of it. There could be a number of reasons, both good or bad, why I don’t have kids. However, those reasons are completely forgotten in these ignorant discussions. Nobody wants to discuss their vagina over the macaroni and cheese. NOBODY. That’s why I’m giving all of my family members advanced notice this year. Don't ask me about that shit. Ask me about some easy shit like politics, reality television, or how to achieve world peace. Leave my pum pum alone. Please!
I don’t care if you’re worried that I’m way past “marriage age.” I also don’t care if you’re concerned that I’m going to wait until it’s too late to have them. Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself. Going home for the holidays and dealing with the inevitable family drama that will surely arise is hard enough. Coupling that drama with unwanted questions and lectures about the state of my own uterus always sends me over the edge. As soon as someone asks me about kids, I’m going to gather my plate and the blender full of margaritas and go to another room. It does not matter if you’re single, in a long-term relationship, or even newly married. Don’t let folks pressure you about adding children (and additional stress) to your life. As soon as they open their mouths, tell them to miss you with that bullshit. You’ll have them when you’re ready, and until then, they can wait.
