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Sometimes I wonder if my girly wiring is a little off. Instead of melting my heart and making my uterus glow with warmth, every time I look at a baby, I feel my arteries tighten and waves of nausea crash through my body. Seeing pregnant women is even worse.
It’s not that I find babies unattractive—although anyone who says that every baby is beautiful either has a really hideous child or never saw photos of my sister Alison in her infancy—it’s more that I find them to be annoying and at times, terrifying.
There are a lot of things about babies and the idea of getting pregnant that I can’t stand. Most prominently: the fat factor. While my body is nowhere near my idea of perfection, I’m pretty sure that there’s no faster way to destroy your physique than shoving a baby into your stomach. When people say being pregnant is sexy or beautiful I throw up in my mouth a little.
Babies live like kings and I hate it. Eat. Sleep. Cry. Shit. Cry. Sleep. Repeat. I can’t think of a more relaxing or wonderful life. Fortunate babies have a gaggle of women around them at all times (and perhaps one or two courageous men) who are willing to sniff butts, change diapers and lose their sleep and sanity. Sometimes I think to myself: If I ever accidentally had a baby, would I kill it out of envy? I’m way too selfish to sacrifice my “Me” time for “Mini Me” time.
That’s why I’ve become a birth-control connoisseur of sorts. For the last six years, I’ve swallowed hundreds of pills, gotten stuck with countless needles, stuck patches on my ass and allowed doctors to examine areas of my body that not even I want to see that closely, all in the name of never, ever becoming pregnant. I think if someone told me that swallowing quarters or shaving my head bald would prevent me from getting knocked up, I would absolutely do it without thinking twice.
Recently, I decided that I wanted to get an IUD. For those of you who are less educated in the ways of the birth-control world, an IUD is a little T-shaped piece of plastic or copper that lives in a uterus for five to 12 years. Meaning, no babies for five to 12 years. Dream come true!
There are some downsides. It’s crazy expensive, and it obviously doesn’t insert itself, so that’s a guaranteed awkward experience for everyone involved. But I took Econ 101, and I know how these things work. There’s a cost/benefit relationship, and I don’t care what the cost is as long as the benefit is a child-free life.
Sometimes people question my antibaby antics. Most say things like, “Oh, you’re so young. You’ll change your mind when you meet the right guy,” or, “You’re very maternal. You’d love to be a mom someday.”
To them I say, A) “I think I’ve found Mr. Right, and let me tell you, he is not going to be Mr. Dad. I am not sharing his patience with some stupid kids. Within five years he would be so frustrated with our ‘family’ he would have to leave and then I would be stuck with a gaggle of children that I don’t want.”
And B) “I have to be maternal to take care of the children I already have, like my father, my sister and my alcoholic roommates. I don’t have time for the whole birthing process.”
My reasoning for not wanting children is rock-solid. Why the hell would I ever want little versions of myself running around, terrorizing mankind? Ninety percent of the time when I reflect on the choices I’ve made in my life it’s hard not to shudder and feel sympathetic for my father. I’m not sure my heart is in any condition to go through half of what I put him through. I would be in jail for murder before any of them reached 16... That is, if they even make it past the nonstop crying infancy.
Does your blood curdle at the sight of pregnant women? Have a baby horror story? Email Jillian at jlevy2@wisc.edu.
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