There is a difference between "want" and "hate"

Coming out of a client’s today, a woman was waiting by the door with a baby in her arms. The eyes on that baby were so big and blue; I couldn’t resist making a comment about them. I lightly touched the child cheek and she smiled up at me. What a cutie! As I drove home, I caught myself thinking that if some friends had seen me, comments would have been made. We are kid free. For many people, not being a parent means that we don’t like kids. In Hubby’s case, it’s a fair assessment, but not in mine. I will not speak/write for Hubby, but only for myself.

Two years ago (already, geez, I’ve been at this blogging thing for a while now!) I did write something about our choice. I stand by what I wrote. Not much has changed since then, except my ability to have a child. That alone took care of a lot. Granted, if ever, the need to be a mother would strike me, I would seriously think of adoption, but I’m not there yet. I say yet, because I will admit that at times, I wonder. I wonder how it would be. I think it’s only natural for me to marvel at the “what if”.

Unlike Hubby, it does affect me when I hear people say things about how much my parents or his parents would have liked to be grandparents. My mother reminds me sometimes that she would have love to play grandma… I understand that, but that wasn’t and still isn’t reason enough to have a child. My choice doesn’t mean I hate kids, it only means that I do not WANT one. What I don’t like are crying or obnoxious ones. Those are don’t care about. But then again, I’m fully aware that it’s not the child’s fault if he/she doesn’t have parents who will teach him/her respect of oneself and of others. I get all that.

Saturday evening, Hubby’s aunt called me, in a panic, because she was babysitting her granddaughter and she thought she was having an allergic reaction or something and wanted to bring her to the hospital to be looked at. I drove from downtown to the Waste Island to pick her and the child up and back in town, to the hospital. I sat in the waiting room, filled with crying babies, coughing and sneezing who knows what, for four hours. I never said anything; I carried all the stuff around (read Curious George, diaper bag, coat, etc) and waited. I was happy (well, sort of) to help. The chicklet was fine in the end, nothing but a stuffy nose.

I must say that I was a little upset, not because I wasted all that time, on an empty stomach, but because parents never think of me as someone who could help. It pisses me off that because I never got pregnant; people think I won’t know what to do with a child. I’m not stupid; I’m just not a mother. At times I feel as if giving birth is something prestigious. Yes, it is miraculous when you think of it, but there is so much more to being a parent, than spreading your legs and pushing a baby out. So, please, so looking at me as this clueless thing who couldn't handle your child and next time, instead of putting me on the “in case of emergency” list, think of me as someone who could also take care of your child, ok?