TO HAVE, OR HAVE NOT

Don’t Have Kids If You’re Ill-Equipped To Raise Them

No spawn, no shame

To you dedicated, committed parents here, I salute you. Your job is anything but easy and I can’t fathom the sacrifices you make every day so that your children grow up to be upright citizens who don’t shoot up elementary schools.

Now, to you women of child-bearing age who are on the fence about giving birth to a miniature human to whom you will be tethered for the rest of your life — unless you become estranged and they bounce — if you’re not absolutely down with the kid thing, skip it and move on. There’s no shame in not wanting to have children. Or in admitting to yourself and others that you don’t have the chops, either emotionally, or financially to raise them properly. On the contrary, it’s a brave move to be child-free in a society that is archaic in its belief that a woman’s “job” is to procreate.

And now, with the Christian Militia’s attempt to revoke a woman’s right to choose what to do with her own body, speaking up, and speaking out, have never been more crucial.

I believe I knew early on that the mothering thing wasn’t for me, although it took me a while to admit that to myself. Animals were and are, my jam.

Never one to gush over babies, as cute as they are, I don’t possess the gene that makes a woman tear up with delight at the prospect of carrying a tiny zygote, that will grow to the size of a beachball, in her womb for nine months.

No offense, ladies. Please.

And I believe the world is a better place for it as I don’t have the chops to be a good mom. The kind that shuttles her kids from school to play dates to ballet class and all manner of activities that the little tykes are involved in. Or, one who runs herself ragged in order to attain Super Mom status.

Nope. Not for me.

My sister on the other hand, who is ten years younger, is the polar opposite of me. She always wanted children and gave birth to three fantastic kids who I am proud to call my niece and nephews.

Although I realize I’m prejudiced, she’s one of the best mothers I’ve ever encountered, either real or fictional. Her kids tell her absolutely everything about their lives, and always have. Even their friends love her. There is something about her “mothering” that is so natural, you know?

I am in awe of my sister, frankly. She held down a job and took care of her family while also taking care of our dying parents in her home for nine months. To me, this is a testament to what love can do. She moved mountains that I would have been unable to budge. Not that I didn’t love my parents. I did, but she “loved” on a different level.

If I was to be brutally honest with myself, and you, I’d declare that I believe my mother had an unwitting hand in my decision to not procreate. Although she loved me and my two siblings dearly, I’m certain she had dreams and desires of her own that died an early death when she gave birth to me at twenty. And I believe the death of those dreams manifested in an unhealthy affinity for alcohol. Sound familiar? If you’ve read a few of my other stories, no doubt, it will.

Quite soon after marrying, my parents decided that having a baby would keep my dad from being drafted. Instead, he was trundled off to Korea in short order, and was in Japan when I was born.

When he was sent overseas, my mother packed us up and moved back into her childhood home, where I was spoiled rotten by my grandparents and my mom’s four siblings.

In later years, my father never missed a chance to tell me that when he finally came back to the States, I had no idea who he was and whenever he tried to spend “quality time” with me, I’d shriek, “Mommy too! Mommy too!”

Ahh, well. I was a baby and thought my grandfather was my daddy. My Papa Joe, who used to perch me on his knee and give me little sips of his sugary coffee.

I find it interesting that I have vague memories of that time, so many years ago, proving that babies do remember things, situations, and people, albeit through a filter, as I do. My recollections of my mother, a kid herself, and her family are hazy, but ingrained in my mind.

Back to you folks who are on the precipice of bringing new life into this world. Is this really what you want? Will you be capable of providing for them? Nurturing them? Protecting them from demons real and imagined?

Are you emotionally capable of sending them off to a school where their welfare will be in someone else’s hands for several hours a day? Where anything could happen at any moment?

If your answer is yes, then I commend you for your courage. Especially, if you live in the United States, where the atrocities are piling up like maggots on roadkill. We are a disgrace to the rest of the world and our downfall is heartbreaking on so many levels.

I suppose, if you’re the optimistic sort and you believe the only way for us to go is “up,” then perhaps, the thought of raising a family isn’t the daunting task that it would present for others. Like myself. Of course, I’m way beyond having anything in my body fertilized, much less my eggs.

Do I even still have eggs?

My point is, there’s nothing shameful or “selfish,” as some people would have you believe, about not wanting to raise a brood of little boogers. Of course, it should go without saying that your partner’s desires have to align with yours, or else you have one hell of a rocky road ahead of you.

I can’t end this piece without mentioning the parents of the lunatic who murdered twenty-one people. Imagine how different this long, holiday weekend would be for their loved ones, had they either not brought him into this world, or, had a clue as to what it takes to raise children. The lack of attention paid is staggering. And yes, as I stated in an earlier piece, I believe they are culpable.

Finally, whatever you do or don’t do, remember, it’s your choice. Or, should be.

Thanks for reading.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.