The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

The Daily Campus

The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

No thanks, babe

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]

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