I know it’s probably unnatural saying this, since I’m a woman and all, but I really don’t like kids.
Last night I fell into the deepest sleep. It was really nice out, so I had the windows open. Ahhhh. I had only been asleep for a couple of hours and I was awakened by all this screaming and yelling and cussing out front. I looked out of my bedroom window and saw eight boys in the street below my window playing football. What’s the big deal? Ummm…the big deal is that it was 1 a.m. and that these kids don’t even live on my block. Now when I say kids, I don’t mean teenagers, I mean children. These children were in and around ten years old.
I know how city living goes and noise is part of the package. That’s a given. So I just shut my windows got back into bed and told myself they’ll wander away soon enough. Such was not the case. Not only did they continue to play football in the street, they started kicking the ball into parked cars and against the front of people’s houses because it was funny to them. Cute, isn’t it? Aren’t kids great?
I got up out of bed again and called 311, which is 911 Lite for those not in the know. The operator was really polite, believe it or not, and I told her what was going on and I asked, “Isn’t there a curfew in the city for children?” She told me there is a curfew, which translates to no unsupervised minors on the streets after 11 p.m. on weeknights and midnight on weekends.
Now that I’m wide awake and my dog is barking uncontrollably, I decided to sit there on my bed and watch the action unfold. Within ten minutes, a squad car pulls up and the cops get out and tell the little darlings to sit on the curb. They went down the row and each kid had to say their age and where they live. I was right about not one of them living on my block and I was mostly right about their ages. I was really surprised to hear that one of the kids was only eight! Anyway, after getting all of their information, the cops put some of the kids in the car and sent the others on their way. Thankfully, they didn’t come back and I eventually fell asleep.
Another hour goes by and it all starts up again. This time it’s a group of six girls just slow-walking down the street and screeching and hollering about something. I couldn’t make out what the hell they were talking about because they were all screeching at once. Again, these girls were young. Maybe twelve or thirteen years old at most. They lingered for a bit on the corner and continued their indiscriminate shouting, eventually slow-walking down to the next block. It’s 2:12 a.m. My alarm is set to go off in three hours.
I hate kids.
Oh I know I know. I can hear the Sally Struthers-esque whining now. You’re going to tell me, “There’s no such thing as bad kids, just bad parents.” There is a lot of truth to that. I’ll give you that. But then again, these kids also knew enough to move off their own block and kick footballs off of my car and my house. And one of the adorable little sweethearts knew enough to say, “I don’t give a fuck who live in them houses. I play football wherever the fuck I want to play football.” He then proceeds to punt the ball into the passenger door of my neighbor’s car. Gosh, kids are irresistibly cute!
Back in my undergraduate days, I worked three part-time jobs. One of those jobs was working in a mall. It was during this experience that I knew, with almost certainty, that I didn’t want to have kids. With each passing shift at the mall, I felt my eggs whither and evaporate. And when my eggs were all dried up, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, my ovaries shriveled into little stones. This wasn’t enough for me to get the message though. I still had to teach high school for a bit after college because self-loathing is my specialty.
Now I’m at that age where a woman’s really got to think about whether or not she wants to have kids naturally. Lady Friend says she’s down to her last good eggs and, that with each period that goes by, she’s naming the eggs like hurricanes. She says she’s a little concerned because now she’s on the Greek alphabet naming system. I’m not that concerned for myself because, like I said, my ovaries are pebbles.
Last night those adorable children reminded me of my complete lack of maternal instincts. I understand how it is that gerbils turn on their young and eat them like little tacos. I’m not much of a meat-eater to begin with and I’m guessing some kids probably taste a little gamey, especially those kids who were in front of my house last night.
For any of you women (and men) out there concerned about birth control and which method is the most effective, but with the least number of side-effects, come spend a night on my block and you’ll find the best alternative yet.
