I ain't got no birthin' hips nohow

I've already sort of explained my position on children. They're cute. Fun to accessorize. And their heads sometimes resemble tennis balls, which amuses me to no end. But they whine and cry and don't know what to do with their feces, and I just don't know if I will ever be able to put up with that for longer than an hour or two.

And I'm almost certain that I'm one of those women. Yes, you know the type. An infant so much as trips over a shoelace, and they recoil in overprotective horror. God forbid the little bugger scrape a knee; he'll be so well bound in gauze that he'll lose all feeling in his legs. And break a bone? Oh, nonono. I'll never let him out of the house again; my precious wittle bubble boy.

I've been reading all those infertility blogs. Women in my family manage to get pregnant at the drop of the hat, but they suck at staying that way. My mother had eight miscarriages before successfully bringing me into this world, pathetic and tiny as I was. Ironically, she "accidentally" got laid immediately afterward and gave birth to my brother in the same year. We were each more than a month premature. I weighed a little more than five pounds.

Maybe I'll just keep cats when I get older. One or two or fifty.