Nope, I Don't Want to Be a Mom

Nope, I Don't Want to Be a Mom
This past weekend, my closest friend’s baby turned one. My husband and I made the two-hour journey to her birthday party, which was a lovely affair. Friends and family turned out in droves. Her present table rivaled my sister’s bridal shower a few weeks ago.

I didn’t know you got a complimentary “smash cake” with a one year old’s birthday cake.

In fact, there is an awful lot about parenting that I don’t know.

For instance, how old should a child be before they talk? My point of reference is that I said the word “help” when I was 7 months old, according to my mom. And I could say “Happy Thanksgiving” around the same time. But never when prompted, which apparently made my mom look like an idiot on several occasions.

I know nothing about when babies can start eating food, how tall they should be, and when they should be crawling. What’s more, I don’t really care.

My friend said her daughter wanted books for her birthday. Seemed easy enough.

Do you have any idea how many kinds of children’s books there are?

After ruling out Barney on general principle, that left a wide array of choices. My husband and I might as well have been shopping for fly-fishing lures. We know about as much about fishing as we do kids.

In the end, we chose two books with “googly eyes” – one was about numbers, the other about colors. I have no idea what the googly eyes had to do with anything, except we thought they were cool.

The celebration for my quasi-niece came days after the last of my college friends announced that she too was pregnant. Now Chris and I are truly the last couple who have not started a family.

Throughout the party, we observed the parents around us. They never seemed to relax and socialize. When talking to us, they had one eye on their kid, making sure she didn’t eat rocks or trip on her adorable teeny sandals and hurt herself.

A mutual friend that I hadn’t seen in over a year was totally preoccupied as we attempted to “catch up.” I quickly discovered that we had NOTHING AT ALL in common anymore.

Sure, I know that my friends love their children and are happy with the choices they’ve made.

I’m happy with my choices too. And when my husband leans over to me and whispers “not in a million years” as yet another kid throws a temper tantrum, I am being completely honest when I say “NO WAY!”

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