My friends have started having babies and my mother has noticed. Little does she know that it was a lifetime of her unsolicited take-control-of-your-life, work-on-your-career-first propaganda that has me where I am today: a good five years from even thinking about volunteering to wipe up somebody else's puke.
To be honest with you, I thought that my friends having kids would push me closer. I thought I'd see how happy they were and all the allegedly irresistible cuteness would sweep me away. Get ready, I thought. But on the contrary, my bekidded friends have all but vanished behind the walls of their happy little child-rearing compounds, barely a blip on the usual gang's where-shall-we-eat radar.
So I figure I'll save all that for when I start to get tired of having great conversations in trendy restaurants, taking spur-of-the-moment weekend trips, and never vacuuming.
If you see my mother, tell her she should have had more kids if she's so set on being a grandma. Tell her two more could've doubled her chances at the daily jackpot. After all, if having children is so great, why did she stop at two? The defense rests.
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