No Kids

That is the topic and title of my favourite new book. This revolutionary tome by Corinne Maier, includes 40 good reasons not to have children. I don’t need forty good reasons (four mediocre reasons, really, would do…), but it’s great that she’s putting it all out there. What’s also great is that she is speaking from experience: she has two kids! My mother has told me many, many times that if she could do her life over again, she wouldn’t have kids (thanks, Mum! Can I borrow some money for more therapy???). Apparently, this author feels the same way.

Many women of the millennium are reconsidering the value of having children. Sure, for some, it may be a rewarding experience, but when serial singletons spend the majority of their ‘30’s focusing on themselves and trying to build healthy relationships with just one other person, the idea of having even more people around to potentially f*ck it up becomes incredibly overwhelming. I’ve spent the past few years in a very specific lifestyle. Just trying to fit someone into that lifestyle, although willingly, is difficult. The author candidly tells women to say goodbye forever to: “…free time, dinners with friends, spontaneous romantic getaways, and even the luxury of uninterrupted thought for the “vicious little dwarves” that will treat you like their servant, cost you hundreds of thousands of dollars, and end up resenting you…”

If the above hasn’t helped you reach a decision, below are 9 of the 40 reasons why Maier feels women should not have children:

* You will lose touch with your friends – You will. All of my friends who have had children over the past few years have definitely dropped off the map. A couple of them did resurface after the first year or so, but it takes a lot of catching up on dating disasters to fill in a year of stories of tragic singledom.

* Your sex life will be over – Mine feels like it might be over just having done the research for this post.

* Children cost a fortune – Take it from Ward and June, kids really do cost a fortune. I cost a fortune!!! Every time I see my poor parents, they offer money out of expectation and pity. I’m a blood-sucking albatross.

* Child-rearing is endless drudgery – Breastfeeding. Sleepless nights. Breastfeeding side effects. Laundry. Cooking. Lessons. School. Homework. Screaming. Crying. Fighting. Toys. Toy stores. Birthday parties. Barf. Need I say more???

* Vacations will be nightmares – I don’t even understand why anyone travels with children. Although my mother may not have had much of a clue about child-rearing, she did know not to take us on vacations until my bro, the youngest, was 6. Why do it to yourself? Why go to the trouble?? The expense??? They won’t even bloody well remember it!!!???

* You’ll lose your indentity and become just “mom” or “dad” – After years of practicing becoming a perplexed singleton on the dating scene, I can’t imagine identifying myself any other way. All that work for nothing??? No way!

* Your children will become mindless drones of capitalism – I did.

* The planet’s already overcrowded – Seriously. Have you ever tried to get a reservation at Babbo in NYC??? Enough said – let’s try to control the population, as I’d like to get in before I die.

* Your children will inevitably disappoint you – Take it from Ward and June – my brother and I are terrible disappointments to them. My god – we couldn’t be more disappointing if we tried. We are both unmarried, much to June’s dismay. We both earn modest salaries and are therefore still on the Blogshaw payroll, much to Ward’s dismay. To all children, unless you become doctors, astronauts or nobel prize winners, all of your perceived achievements will be disappointing. I should have spent less time kissing boys in my youth (I didn’t realize at that time how long I’d be doing that into adulthood) and more time trying to cure cancer…….

meet the fockers

Talk about making progress on the dating scene. Talk about reaching a mating milestone. I’m finally dating someone who is worthy of making the biggest, most potentially painful and certainly scary sacrifice for. Yep, I decided a while ago that G Spot is someone who is worthy of introducing to my fockers.

It all went down this weekend up at the cottage. Not only did the meet and greet have to happen north of the comforts of city living, the poor guy had to endure 3 days of it. What a trooper. However much I liked him before, it’s definitely been enhanced now. Sexy.

The weeks leading up to the meeting of the fockers were anxious ones for my mother. Poor June (the wanna-be wedding planner), she’s been dying to meet G Spot for weeks, if not months. She wanted to learn as much about his background as possible before meeting him, as both she and my father have the uncanny ability to say just the wrong thing at just the wrong moment. When she wanted to know about his background, I mentioned that he had a German heritage. Hearing this, June instantly needed to know if he, or anyone in his family, is a Nazi. The reason? Because most of their friends are Jewish. Seriously – this is a discussion that we had at the dinner table a couple of weeks ago…….. When I asked how she would like him to address her, she said she wanted him to call her Mrs. Cleaver-Blogshaw, not June, as she prefers formal introductions. I forced the issue to see if we could make it more casual by using first names, but she wouldn’t make any concessions other than giving him permission to call my father “Pappa.” ???!!! Whatever.

So, it went well. My parents seem to be bigger fans of him than they are of me, which at this point is okay. Of course, June couldn’t resist telling embarrassing stories of my younger years, but that is standard and I’m pretty sure that even normal parents do that. My mother managed to restrain herself from making wedding plans and my father did not beg G Spot to make me an honest woman and to take me off the Blogshaw family payroll. Compared to the meeting of the real Fockers, this was pretty tame - no one was insulted, home renovations weren’t sabotaged, babies weren’t taught to swear and small dogs weren’t flushed down the toilet. However, there is always next weekend……

GUILT

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhh, guilt. No, this post has nothing to do with my mother. The guilt I am feeling is self inflicted. And ridiculous. Why is it, you are asking yourself, that I am feeling so guilty? What have I done now?? Well, here it is.......

I have found an amazing man.

This has led me to feel an extraordinary range of emotions, such as happiness, joy, elation, gratitude and, somewhat ridiculously, guilt. I feel so fortunate to have met my great guy (let's call him G Spot), and trust me, I've worked long and hard and dated all kinds of men who turned out to be so very un-amazing in the mean time, that I should feel fortunate. It's my turn! However, in solidarity with the other tragic singletons who I have lived through the saga of modern day dating with, I feel guilty. It's like I have survivors guilt. Why was I able to find someone great when some of my other fabulous friends are still slogging it out? Why was I spared???!!!

Being polite, I try not to go on and on ad nauseum about how happy I am with G Spot. I don't want to rub it in, but damn, am I happy......... Of course, should anything go disastrously wrong, or should we have our first fight, I will gladly offer up the gory details. Still, so far so good.

Perhaps I am paying my penance to singledom by being grateful. I've suffered through bad dates, bad relationships and the modern mystery that is online dating, and I finally met a good guy. As the memory of tragic singledom is still fresh, I am very mindful of making myself available to my friends for GNO's, dildo parties at my place, etc. (well, when I'm not holed up in my flat with G Spot having regular sex....). I'm also still trying to set my singleton friends up and I have taken on the role of speed dating coach. If I was unappreciative of this situation, perhaps I should feel guilty. Seriously, in between the highs of being intoxicated by someone else's fabulousness, I would perfer not to feel guilt like only a politician, Catholic priest, or OJ Simpson could!