I hate kids.
There. I said it. And God… it feels good.
I’m positively pooped from acting as though my biological clock aches with every small face I see. Of the inevitable pressure to fake-coo and make a fuss over every spit bubble and murmur of monosyllables; grinning through gritted teeth as a baby is thrust into my arms with the expectation I’ll enwrap it in maternal love.
Why must people persist with the idea that, because I’m in possession of a uterus, I’m simply overflowing with a nurturing instinct that compels me to clutch at every chubby little arm I see, and gush in a rush of oxytocin-induced euphoria at each cry or giggle?
And why is it I constantly feel cornered into talking in a sing-song voice and awkwardly accepting a contrived cuddle when a friend shows up with a little person in tow, rather than following instinct and saying “Thanks, but no thanks”, for fear of being branded “cold”, “selfish” and “heartless”?
Is there no in between?
I like being an adult. And doing adult things. With other adults.
I don’t like Windexing sticky handprints off my Noguchi coffee table. Or having to maintain a peripheral to ensure curious feet aren’t climbing where they shouldn’t. Or holding conversations that revolve around cartoons and lollies.
I hate it.