Offspring, aka: The Highest Form Of Narcissism

The other day, my boss's six year old daughter asked me why my pig was wearing a cape.  Since I couldn't very well tell her it's his "rape cape," I told her the pig was flying, and he was carrying his friend.

I think I'm ready for parenthood.

This is a bold statement coming from the girl whose level of patience for people in general, let alone children, is microscopic.  I understand a proclamation for the desire to have kids, as made by a girl who once hip-checked a baby into the side of a changing table when he was about to roll off, seems questionable, if not altogether unnatural.  Also, I genuinely don't know what to do with babies when I have to pee.  I once propped a baby up in his chair and set him in the corner of the bathroom, facing the wall, while I relieved myself.  

And yet here I am, preparing to slingshot myself into motherhood.  (Naturally when I have kids, I'll have to make sure they remain illiterate so they never read this blog.)  I guess that very statement is a testament to the legitimate concern of whether or not I would be a fit parent.  Other red flags might include thoughts and facts such as:

• If my child is born with red hair, how young is "too young" to start dying it?  (To be fair, this is way less harsh than my mother, who swore that if she ever had a baby with red hair, she'd flush it down the toilet.  Well, look who lived to tell, mom.) 
• My history - as I've divulged in previous posts thus far.
• My French, as in my constant requests that you pardon it.  I have nothing to offer my child in the realm of a foreign language. 
• I don't really like other people's kids, but am holding onto the belief that I'll like my own - at least that's what everyone says will happen.
• I'm not married, and if you're a stickler for tradition, you'll have a strong opinion against my need to procreate out of wedlock. 

At this point, you're probably wondering why I believe I'm a good candidate for parenthood.  Firstly, I never claimed I'm a "good" candidate, but I think we can all agree that as long as I'm not raising my child in a drug den, there are a lot worse parents out there than the one I would make.

Secondly, if I don't shit out a kid, who will take care of me when I'm old?  Not to mention I don't have a savings, so I'm counting on my child's athleticism or dramatic talent to rendezvous as my 401k.

Thirdly, I just really want to see what a mini-me would look like.  And isn't that the main reason to have children, anyway?  Because I could be like Brangelina and adopt the United Nations and start my own soccer club, but who has that kind of energy?  And honestly, if any of my adopted kids ever got in legal trouble, I can't use the "blood is thicker than water" defense to justify my denial of their guilt.  I just don't know if I'd stand by them.

Not to mention, I'm really starting to feel like the odd-man-out on Facebook and Instagram.

Granted, I'm not entirely looking forward to stretch marks or weighing as much as Mama June Boo Boo Honeypot whatsherfuck.  Frankly, the thought of a little alien parasite growing inside of me, stealing my nutrients and going poop in my stomach makes me retch.  But the fact that I still get teary eyed whenever I watch old reruns of TLC's A Baby Story has to count for something, right?  It means I'm not a complete stone heart.  That somewhere inside my Grinch-like soul, there exists a sliver of humanity and compassion.

If there's any redemption to be had in this drivel, it's this: I happen to think my sperm donor is rather handsome.  I've come to know him quite intimately, and he's the smartest man I've ever met.  He kills it at Jeopardy, you guys.  He's wildly funny, and he understands my off-beat impropriety.  He matches my level of crazy in the sense that he's chosen to be with me, and for some inexplicable reason, he stays.  He brings the goods.  In other words, he's good breeding material, and I know he'd make a wonderful father.  So if there's any outstanding concern for the blight that would befall the human race should I happen to introduce a new Being, rest assured that as long as the father is present, this kid's in good hands, and society will be safe.

  

Snacks In My Pants

Photo Credit

This story is more a lesson in parenting skills than a recollection of past experiences.

By today's standards, my mom started young.  She was twenty-six when I was born, and twenty-eight when she had my brother.  Or maybe it just sounds young to me because I can't imagine having a nine and seven year-old right now.  That just seems unfathomable.  I barely have the means to keep myself afloat, let alone two kids - and my collection of ex-boyfriends has done just as much damage to my credit score as it has they have to my… psyche, so they wouldn't have been much help in the child care payment department.  But I digress.

I think my mother's youth contributed largely to her parenting style - particularly when it came to pet names.  "Big Girl Parts" and "Big Boy Parts" were the appropriate identifiers for our genitals, "Bottom Burp" was our label for farting, and I assume because LA is close to the border and my parents were big on instilling culture in my brother and me at a young age, we used the Spanish word "moco" for boogers.  Not so terrible, until it came to dirty diapers, whereupon my mom or dad would look at us and ask if we had "snacks" in our pants.

That's right - Snacks.

What the fuck does that even mean!?  A snack is a tasty morsel of food to tie you over until dinner, or enjoy at the movies, or to help pass the time at work while you're chained to your desk wondering what to blog about - NOT something you shit out in your pants.  Who wants to eat that?  Sure, maybe some cultures do.  Hell, in some cultures it may even be considered a delicacy, but certainly not in developed countries.

I needed to teach my parents a lesson.  They needed to realize the error of their ways.  I may have only been a toddler, but I knew when something was gauche.

We were at the bank.  It was another sunny day in Los Angeles - a scorcher.  The air was ripe with sweat and musk.  Security Pacific's air conditioner couldn't keep up with the steadily rising mercury of the thermometer, and the natives were getting restless.  Mom stood patiently in line waiting for the next teller, but I was pretty squirmy.  Looking back, my fidgeting probably had less to do with the heat and more to do with the dump I needed to take.  So mom set me down and allowed me to wander around.

Finally!  A moment to myself, free of the constriction of my mother's arms, to take care of business.  I got really quiet - too quiet.  By the time mom registered what was happening, it was too late; my hands were already down the back of my pants, and when I pulled them out, I proudly held them up to my mother and proclaimed, "Snacks!"

She promptly ditched her place in line to grab me and - mortified - ran out of the bank.

Serves her right, I say.  Let this be a lesson to all you parents out there:  think twice about the cutesy names you assign to anatomical and biological matters, lest they backfire.  Kids have an uncanny knack for throwing grown-ups under the bus.