One day after I have a conversation with a good friend about children, I find myself trapped in a women's restroom stall at University Village while a horde of shrieking, uniformed schoolgirls try to kick in my door. I finally muster my dignity, finish my business and stalk out, casting an evil eye that makes a few of the blond hellions shrink inside their blue plaid dresses. The matron in charge -- if you call "in charge" making quiet, mousy requests to "wait your turn" -- does not appreciate my death glare. I retaliate with an icy stare that could freeze molten lava, then turn on my heel and storm out the door.
Oh yes. I am NOT ready for children.
It's weird even to think that I am at childbearing age -- this was the topic of discussion last night, when my friend and I realized that people would readily accept a pregnant me or Hannah now. In my warped mind, I still envision parents and friends gasping in horror -- but they'd probably just smile and start knitting itty-bitty jerseys. I'd be the only horrified one, particularly since I would rather have a thoroughbred rescue than a child right now.
At the same time, I am only 24, and I don't really like having people ask me when I'm planning to have kids. There is more to life, at least at this stage...and I can name a million reasons why I'm not ready yet, including: 1.) I don't know if I feel comfortable bringing a child into this unstable world; 2.) there are enough orphans out there for me to adopt; 3) the average American child sucks a million times more resources out of the planet than other kids; 4) dogs, cats and horses are far more cuddly and don't scream as much.
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