I have a bone to pick with you, ladies.
So, you’ve squeezed out a kid or two. Fine. That’s great (I guess). If you’re happy with it… whatever. I don’t care.
And that’s the kicker. I. Don’t. Care. I don’t give two shits about your offspring. I really don’t. Just because I was born with a uterus doesn’t mean I like children, want children, or think children are even remotely interesting.
See, a woman’s success is not measured in the number of times she’s snipped the umbilical cord. It’s just procreation. On a scientific level, in terms of the sperm’s journey to the egg and the combining of genetic material and the growth of the blastocyst into an embryo… sure, procreation’s pretty damn interesting. But socially? Popping out a baby isn’t novel, exciting, or in any way interesting.
Do not get offended when you ask me if I have children, and I chuckle and tell you I will never have kids. It’s my decision whether I decide to carry around a parasite for nine months, birth it, and then have it leech off me for the rest of my life, or whether I keep my vagina intact, keep my sanity, and enjoy my freedom. My decision. Not yours.
Frankly, I don’t think you should ever start a conversation by asking if I have children. At least ask my name first.
And the proper follow up to me telling you I have no desire to breed is not to puff out your chest and proclaim you have five children. Because I just don’t know what you expect me to say in response to that. I’m not going to congratulate you for doing something women have been doing for thousands of years. What do you want me to say? Good for you? Because that’s the only response I can think of. I’m not going to ask you anything about them. I don’t want to know their sexes, names, ages. I don’t care how they’re doing in school. I don’t even know you. Why would I care about your faceless spawn?
Also… do you cease having interests once you give birth? Because I just spent 8 hours locked in room with three women roughly my age who could talk about nothing but their children. And the birthing process. Can’t we talk about anything else? I’d settle for a discussion about shoe shopping. Seriously.
Because it’s just flat-out boring for me when you yammer away about little Miah or J’nelle. [as an aside… people, name your fucking children normal goddamn things]
When I have to be around you, interacting with you, for a prolonged period of time, there’s nothing I hate more than to be served a heaping platter of maternal smugness. Oh, I have carried a life within me and released it upon the world and now am nurturing and caring for it, raising it to be a real person. Aren’t I special? Don’t you just envy everything about me, from my stretch marks to my post-partum depression to my lukewarm marriage to the man who planted his seed in my womb all those months ago?
I feel all you women could learn something from this video, because seriously, it’s not just pregnant women who are smug. It’s new mothers, too. Anyone who thinks that having a baby makes you better than other women. Anyone who thinks they are suddenly wiser and more mature because they’ve ejected the product of meiosis and fertilization from their body.
So, you have a baby. That’s nice. It’s not something that has to be brought up every three minutes. Because some women just don’t care about your kids. I’m one of those women. Don’t assume that my vagina means I believe in any kind of female solidarity. That I think procreation is a sacred, beautiful act. That I want to listen to you tell me about your epidural and how your belly felt right before your water broke.
Deal with it- your greatest success in life is of absolutely no importance to me.
Shut the fuck up about your goddamn baby.