When I was about 13 I decided I never wanted kids. Ever. Period. You are probably saying to yourself “Gee, that seems a bit impulsive and irrational.” Well, teenagers make impulsive and irrational decisions from time to time. But to me my decision was neither. I declared my vagina to be a pleasure zone only and not a tunnel for future life.
Some people are just “kid people.” They love any child no matter how much he or she resembles demon spawn. I was (and still aren’t.) one of those people. To me, kids were just loud, obnoxious creatures that ruined a good movie or a quiet dinner out. So, why’d I change my mind?
Well, the seed of doubt planted its self in my brain when I decided to work as a camp counselor when I was 15. You’re likely thinking “Why the hell would you want to take care of children?” It was a job of convenience: it was close by, the pay was decent and it required absolutely no prerequisites other than that you haven’t committed a felony.
That summer I patched up bloody knees, tied countless shoes, and broke up fights usually involving sand throwing and slapping. Oh, did I mention these were three and four year old boys and girls? If they were bad then, I couldn’t imagine what’d those trolls would be like when they could properly formulate a sentence let alone have some power behind their right hook.
I did learn one valuable thing: Not all of them were monsters. There were some (be it few) that were actually sweet, polite and caring to their fellow toddlers. This mostly had to do with decent parenting (i.e. teaching them to say “please and thank you” instead of “give it to me now!”) but some kids had lovely parents and still acted like rejects for the part of Damien in the “Omen”. Needless to say, I still didn’t want to reproduce.
For the next three summers I worked as a counselor for various age groups. I’m not sure why I stuck with it; probably because once I know I can do something I stick to it; a creature of habit I suppose. My opinion of children softened a bit, especially when I returned from a two day absence to be greeted by a swarm of kids hugging my thighs and demanding to know where I had been. It felt strange to be missed like that; truthfully I was shocked they even noticed I was gone.
In my late teens something even stranger happened than a bunch of tiny people honestly caring about my whereabouts. I became very sensitive to the well-being of kids. Kids I didn’t even know! I used to be able to watch a movie, see thirty children blown to dust and not even flinch. That changed. I was watching a show on T.V. about this little boy who was kidnapped from a store while his parents were shopping. The child was adamant to his kidnapers that his father would rescue him.
Then it cut to the child lying dead on a deserted beach. That broke me. I burst into tears. I couldn’t understand how someone could kill a child like that so coldly, so heartlessly. From that point on violence against children became harder and harder for me to watch. Now, if I sense impending doom about to befall anyone under the age of 10, I change the channel.
After that my mother bear instincts began to reveal it’s self. Still working as a counselor at the time, I began to become less and less tolerant of adults or kids alike being mean to “my campers.” Even the kids I didn’t particularly care for; if one older, bigger kid cut him in line for the water fountain I wanted to tear their head off. It startled me to feel so protective over someone, not to mention someone that wasn’t even mine. I couldn’t imagine how overly protective (and possibly psychotic) I would be if I had my own child.
As time passes I have already come to terms with the fact that I am getting older and one day (gasp) I will be “old”. I’m 20 now and by most people’s standards I’m not old and I have plenty of time to think about having kids. Selfishly, what really changed my mind about it was facing my own mortality. I am not going to live forever, that’s a given. The more and more TruTV and news I watch the more it becomes a harsh reality.
When I get old, who will feel guilty enough to take care of me because they gave me hell in their teens? All joking aside though, when I'm gone I want someone remember me. It is too risky, too dangerous to not have a child. He or she will be the only true extension of you, the only one to carry on the memory of who you were. Hopefully, they will be the ones to never let you truly die – in the metaphorical sense.
So when I was recently asked by my boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend (who has a child from a previous relationship) if I wanted kids, I’ll admit I hesitated but then said “Yeah, I think I do.” The uncertainly now comes from “when” as opposed to the “ever” aspect of the question. In a few years I do want to have kids. I just pray that they turn out healthy, beautiful and don’t act like rabid beasts toward their future camp counselors.
