We Can Still Be Babies

Yesterday, in an attempt to find some video footage I found my some of my old writing from high school/ early college.

Blaaaaaaaaaaagh.

I knew it was a bad idea to read it, but I did; it made me want to smack my eighteen year old self on the hands, tell her that name dropping authors and books in your writing isn’t cool, and to keep writing. It still amazes me how much my writing has improved/continues to improve, just by doing it on a regular basis. Also, being surrounded by talented people with whom I can workshop and discuss my work with has been invaluable.

I have been thinking: BABIES

So, it’s about 2 days after Christmas.

And, I am babysitting.

This is not the kind of babysitting where you can pop in a DVD or send them out to play. This is the, well, frankly it’s the intensive ‘no-rookies-allowed’ babysitting. Luckily, I’ve been watching these two macho boys for about 5 years and I can basically read their minds. (basically). But, that doesn’t mean I’m not constantly pulling my hair out in frustration. GAH. They live on a farm! A FARM.

I have a fear of farm animals (no snickering). Forserious, peoples. Bad experiences all around. Generally, that means I don’t want to go outside much…ya know, the animals and such. But, with the farm and the animals comes a lot of rusty machinery. And, the moment those two ragamuffin boys step outside, I see in my brain all these horrendous images of heads sliced on jagged saw edges or nails in noses or electric fence zappings, etc. Put two and two together and you get hell.

But, that doesn’t mean I don’t love these kiddos to bits.

Anywho, I should be deputized..or something…for enduring this. JUST KIDDING: but what I wanna chat with y’all about is children and how I am a woman and have to think about these types of things and how it’s weird and stuff.

So, when we’re given dollies or barbies or whatever, that’s the beginning. And, by now this should be common sense. Then, we “become women” and bleed and whatnot and people make offhand comments about babies and how “one day” and yattayattayatta.

I am sick of it. I am too young to be thinking about this (as are all the chicklitz), but I still have grandmothers, aunts, old ladies from church (or even the laundry-mat) suggesting that “one day” I’ll grow a small mutant in my abdomen and name them SOFIE ANNE OR WHATEVER THE HELL IS COOL RIGHT NOW. I am sick to death, people. It is not rational for me to look at myself in the mirror and think, you know, I could have a belly out to here some day. UCK. But, by no means am I putting down those women that have or want children. (Y’all are  great! Keep on keepin on.) I just want to do my thing and not have people assume that I want children or that I want a husband. Lawdy, don’t even get me started on husbands.

Basically, my quandary is this: why do I feel like I have to think about all this? I can rationalize myself into believing it’s unimportant for a while but it always comes back. BRAINWASHING?