It has been brought to my attention that I am going on thirty and have no womb fruit. This is a good thing in my estimation. Really it is. I admit that my ten year high-school reunion is being planned via myspace, and though I am reticent to join anything as cloistered as an event with 300 people who make my heart rate spike, I do enjoy stalking their profiles. There is a specific satisfaction in seeing the majority of my classmates saddled with the extra baggage of cherub faced poop machines. Not that I don't love changing a nappy as much as the next person, but I paid my dues as a 12 year old babysitter.
There is this bizarre transformation which I notice in the breeders around me. They suddenly cease to exist outside of their infant. Granted, they are sleep deprived and haven't had a lucid dream in months, but that doesn't mean I haven't. This must be why it is that they feel the urge to change that same dirty nappy in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Oddly, if I question their behavior, I am a selfish and un-matronly woman who deplores all things children. Well that's half right. I do approve of children in restaurants, as long as they are not having a fit. I do not approve of anyone crying in public, especially if their is screaming involved.
What happened to the days when children where removed from public when they were making a scene? What happened to finish your meal? What happened to "Please" and "Thank You?" What happened to nap time and tree climbing? What happened to listen to me and this is not up for discussion?
Anyhow not much else has changed; I remain unconvinced of procreation—the majority of people choosing to do so seem so coddling and unfit for life much less parenthood.
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