I’ve talked of this this alot. I’ll keep writing about it until I find a resolve. It’ll always be said to me therefore the blistering anger will always be burning under my skin. “Oh, but I’m sure you’ll want kids when you’re older!”. No, I won’t want a grimy fucking parasite growing out of me when I’m older, but thanks for asking.

To use the term ‘it’s not a phase, mom’ feels utterly ridiculous. Had the term not been adopted and abused within communities of angry teens (once sincere, not ironic) I would have no problem using it because it’s true. I am a twenty three year old women and this choice of not wanting children isn’t a phase. It is a personal choice based on opinions and fears that I have held since I even considered the idea that some rugrat could come explode from within me. When I begin believing in something that may change certain aspects of my life I make very fucking certain it’s something I am settled happily upon. The same could be said for my gently satanic fashion style. I do not see myself changing my preferences in clothes or hair anytime soon, or ever. At this age you don’t tend to change as much as you once did, more settled on things with a little more experience tucked behind your ear. I am at an age in which the choices I make will stick around until I’m thirty or so, and I’m happy with the choices I make or choose to continue with. The goth phase came and never left and I couldn’t be happier. I have no issues buying an expensive shirt telling someone to fuck off. It makes me giggle. Watching my mother see my new purchase and do that frown that looks like she’s juggling gobstoppers between her lips also makes me giggle. I understand I’m getting off topic. I’m saying as a healthy independent adult at a level-headed age I have made my life choices which will affect a majority of my life.

What some (only some) mothers don’t seen to understand is that children are in this choice and not a customary ritual one must do. Generation Y is supposedly one of selfish intentions because we don’t want many kids. Many of my friends have this same opinion. We all grew up together, from tots to trash. We know how fucking terrible we are. Why add to the count? I wouldn’t want a smaller version of myself wandering around without a leash on. I find it hard enough to control myself. How would I control another me whose limbs I couldn’t keep still? I’ve got enough anxiety to power on my entire life. My high school years were plagued with heavy depressions, my primary years ones spent in confusion and shame. Ah yes, these are the experiences and disorders I would like to pass onto a child. How would I even raise a child? I barely raised myself. I can long for many things. One of these things isn’t motherhood.  One of these things is food.

My mother is so smug and certain that in ten years I’ll be in a hospital bed with my vagina split in two, cradling a flesh cake in a blanket. I can almost see her shit-eating grin. I’m excited to see that smile turn to grim realisation that this isn’t a phase and the only children she’ll be getting are plastic dolls with missing eyes. Sorry mother, I know you want to take care of our kids and I wish there was a way for you to look after babies without me having to have one. I’ll steal an occupied pram from the park and pretend it’s mine for a few days. I heard you get good food in jail.

(Sometimes I forget if I’m joking or not).

Nevertheless, at this age, I know when I’m certain of something and this is for sure; one decision that will stick with me for a little longer than forever. I’d rather plunge into the foamy depths of Niagara falls in an open barrel than conceive a child.

I wonder when I’ll write something worth reading…

 

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