#1 — Temperament

I’m the only child of two only children. That is not a recipe for “Mother of the Year.”

I didn’t like children when I was a child, so much so that I refused to go to summer camp and spent the entirety of my first and last Brownie meeting hiding in the community center bathroom.

Alas, I don’t see much evidence – in the malls, in other people’s homes, on voyages aboard Screaming Baby Airlines — to indicate that their behavior has improved over the decades.

Children are always broke and are poor conversationalists. Their jokes aren’t funny. These are traits you avoid while choosing friends; why would you want to intentionally lock yourself into a 24/7 relationship with someone exactly like that, and, worse, saddle yourself with paying their every expense for 20+ years?

There’s a reason I’m a writer and not, say, a chirpy Wal-Mart greeter or back-slapping used car salesman. I can’t abide noise, interruptions, disruptions in my rigid routine or the thought of other people touching my stuff.

Again, not ideal maternal qualifications.

I can barely cope with my cat barfs. Imagine me changing diapers.

I could go on for a thousand more words — and touch on the Chowchilla kidnapping, and how being taught by nuns modeled respectable childlessness — but why bother? I’m almost at the age when this entire issue (if you’ll pardon the pun) will be moot.

Although I must confess, if I could get an iron clad guarantee that my child would turn out like this, I might reconsider:

 

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