Children should be seen and not heard

Today, in line at the grocery store, we were assaulted by what sounded like an air-raid siren. It was, in fact, a child. Face painted, most likely from a visit to McD's, screaming her lungs out like the horrible little banshee she was, howling at her parents, banging at walls, pillars, shopping carts, whatever. Such parental bliss. Such harmony. And the parents reacted soooo well, I think. I felt an urge to step up and start yelling as well. But I didn't. I thought of my happy place. Happy, happy, happy!

Two conclusions were drawn from this. One of them has been aired here before, but it needs to be said again.

Before I go any further I have to say I don't know jack about parenting. I don't want to know. I haven't really discussed the intricacies of actually forming a person out of the little bundle of joy and excruciating pain that's the sum of the genetic material of you and your significant other. Sure, the subject has come up, but I have nothing to add, and truth be told, since I don't plan on having children, ever, I don't really care. This might sound harsh, but it's true. Why discuss births and pregnancies and diapers and all that when it will never apply to you?

At the same time I am filled with nothing but pride over the friends and family members who actually manage the act of parenting. Who will, no doubt, make this a better world by filling it with complete, happy, stable people. You know who you are.

So. The conclusions.

There should be some sort of license required to spawn children. Or at least some sort of test after child one, to see if you actually do a good job and get to have another. I'm not a believer in any kind of genetic supremacy theories, but I do believe some people really shouldn't be parents. I applaud those that come to this conclusion themselves, and I loathe those that I see screaming at their children. Or worse, hitting them. Some time ago, I berated a woman on the subway that slapped her son when he wouldn't stop talking. Again, some people shouldn't have children.

The second conclusion is that my father was a parenting genius. When my brother and I got a little frisky, he would tell us to play carrots. Because carrots are silent and still. And we did.

I'm the one on the far right. Pre-beard.
My brother is second from the left.

We played carrots. To this day I can't believe it worked. He must have used some sort of hypnosis. Or maybe we were just very well-adjusted children. This is where Mah Girl says “or stupid”. I prefer well-adjusted.

People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one

Today we were visited by a bearded friend and his charming offspring, Una. Cinnamon rolls were eaten. Pixar characters went to infinity and beyond on the TV screen. The view from our living room was commented excitedly and unintelligibly. R2-D2 was the prime suspect in a water attack in the kitchen (though Mah Girl was the architect of that particular atrocity, not the child).

A grand time was had (I hope) by all.

I'm not having children. Ever. At 33 years old, I can say that with a fair amount of certainty. It's not for me. With that said, I need to clarify that I in no way, shape or form judge or look down from my oh so high horse on those that have chosen to have children. It might be for them. I know it's not for me. I know I have seen many examples over the years where people shouldn't have had children. And a handful where it was really the right thing to do.

Why aren't I having children? Hard question that. One that I have pondered a lot over the years. And not one I'm going to answer in detail here, since most of the reasons are private, and frankly, this here blog ain't about exposing stuff I want to keep private, but about writing when I feel like it, for me and anyone else that thinks it might be interesting. But I do have answers, and answers I feel comfortable with. If you feel like getting into them with me, let me know. We just might.

Tomorrow off to work after sixteen days away from the office. Sixteen glorious, much needed days. I feel mentally rested, though I shouldn't have stayed up late the last couple of days, to adjust to getting up at six again. Oh well. It was worth it. 104 episodes of The West Wing in 15 days. Not a joke.

And there's the answer to the question. I can't let one of those small, bi-pedal entities with almost human brains get between me and my TV shows *grin*