There is a time bomb in this universe that ticks louder than an old man with Parkinson’s disease playing the drums – it’s my wife’s uterus. After deflecting the standard baby debate that every newly married couple goes through, I started thinking about how babies and I don’t mix. Every single step of the process has inherent problems.
Step one: Delivering under pressure.
Frankly, I am not that great to start with, so the added pressure of delivering the swimmers – well it’s a gamble. On the other hand, practice does make perfect.
Step two: Hormone-crazed wife.
Like most of the men in this world, I have come to the conclusion that 97.8 percent of women are clinically insane. I don’t know if it is a holy punishment or some sort of secret pact that women have, but I have the queen of the crazies as a wife. The idea of having to deal with heightened emotions because of a chemical imbalance makes me want to hire a 24-hour bodyguard.
Step two and a half: I have to live with her.
I can see it now. Walking in the front door, tired from a full day of work and school only to find my wife lying on the couch wearing a “Baby on Board” t-shirt, commenting on the finer points of “The Young and the Restless.” And when I dare ask what she did all day, she will reply, “I grew a lung for YOUR child today. What did you do?” This will ultimately be her default answer for everything. How do you combat a woman who is growing major organs?
Step three: Raising the little monster.
Everyone has the fear of being a bad parent – it is a feeling no one can escape. Personally, I have grown up around very few small children. Now that my friends are having children, I have the opportunity to have more interaction with babies. The problem is the only experience I have to draw from is that of raising dogs. Even the simplest task of getting a child’s attention gets skewed into a stereotypical “come here”-style dog whistle. This thought scares me. I can’t even communicate with babies without using the subtle grunts that I have used to talk to my furry children. But above all of these things is the scariest thougt: I would be responsible for another human life. I don’t even like me. Then comes school, driving, a wife or husband, prison time and eventually the grandchildren cometh. Just thinking about my child’s life and happiness is stressful, not to mention that I would have to learn to be a friend, a parent and a bank.
So, I just can’t do it. No children for me. I don’t care what that wretched wife wants. A wise man once told me, “Do not have kids!” That and, “You always look very sexy.” Even though that wise man was me, I plan to live by his advice. Just these three steps alone are enough to scare me off, I think.
I also realize that maybe you have to take these baby steps before you can learn to walk the road of true happiness. On second thought, scratch that.
About the writer:
Matt Villanueva is junior advertising major. He can be reached at [email protected]
