On the way home, however, we came to an understanding, Tom and I. We talked kids. As most of you Dear Readers know, we've been trying to get pregnant for the last fifteen months. Each month, it gets harder and harder to face her visit (and since most of you are female, you know which her I'm talking about).
I'm torn about kids. There are days that I want children (yes, plural). I want to impart my love of books and movies and sports and knitting and games and fair play to someone that will look up to me. I want to (in a not-so-nice way) shove it in my sister's face that yes, even though I didn't have kids at the time, I knew what the flying eff I was talking about when I was giving her parenting advice. Don't get me wrong, Dear Readers, I love my sister. But when it comes down to the common sense of raising a child, she's got negative reserves of it.
Then there are days when I like doing what I want of an evening (you're welcome, Jen); gaming, watching movies, eating popcorn for dinner if I so choose or not eating dinner at all. If we decide we want to go out for dinner (not that we do it all the time), I like not having to have a babysitter or go someplace kid-friendly.
Mr. Realist made a very good point on Thursday evening. We get told all the time 'But you'd make such great parents!' He commented that 'yeah, I might make a great painter, but you don't see me running out to do that, either!' That kind of put it into perspective for me.
Right now, I don't want kids more than I do want kids.
Part of it is that I have the opposite patience of a saint when it comes to crying, squalling babes. Don't get me wrong - I love my nieces; I love my friends' children. On Thursday, Aubree was so tired (waaaay too much stimuli and no nap because Daddy Dumbass wouldn't put her down and let her soothe herself) that she was screaming like someone was burning her with lit matches. About twelve seconds in, Tom noticed that I could have happily stuck lit TNT in my ears, just so I couldn't hear her. I was almost crawling the walls, peoples!
Part of it is that I grew up in an abusive household. I understand the need for spankings, but there's a HUGE difference between a spanking and beating the shit out of your kids. Whatever was handy was turned into a swingable weapon. The leather belt was the most common, but I'd gotten wooden spoons, coat hangers, flyswatters (either end, didn't matter), and an old canoe paddle was cut down to just the blade and about a four-inch handle. You can feel sorry for me if you want (I'd rather you didn't), but it doesn't change the fact that I'm downright scared that I'll be the same way. You can tell me that I can make that conscious choice not to beat my kids, but you don't know (nor do I) what would make me snap.
Sigh. Didn't mean to depress anyone.
I'll be back.
Be safe out there, and heepwah