“This story you’re telling me? This story is birth control,” I told my sister.
Today I heard stories of people launching babies into the world through their young, ignorant loins. The choice was made to procreate for a reason they saw fit–completely not the right reason, but they had a baby. Before pregnancy, the young couple thought adorable things like, “birth control is expensive,” before realizing they may have to pay for a child to survive. Survive middle school with at least six Justin Bieber concerts under her belt.
Luckily, this child will grow up surrounded by love. Sometimes a warped, manipulative, well-meaning but stupid version of love, but love nonetheless. Add air quotes to the word if you need.
I get older and hear my uterus quietly contemplating its relevance. It’s hard to raise normal offspring. Even if you do have the knack, there’s no telling how much that kid is going to want to light things on fire once he hits puberty. Obnoxious parenting and those who unnecessarily breed act as my birth control. 90% of my methods of birth control are not prescription based and probably also do not warrant such criticism:
- High school Facebook feeds
- Street festival foot traffic
- Children on a moving walkway
- The Jersey Shore
- Airplane baby time bombs (too obvious)
- An entire six top of adults staring at one baby
- Stroller convoys parked outside of bookstores on a Tuesday
- Parents asking children what kind of Starbucks’ drink they’d like
- Parents ordering a child’s regular at Starbucks
I’m not a complete baby Grinch. I love kids. I dislike parents. And although I am solidly agnostic about the possibility of my own future spawn, my uterus melts (or swells, whichever is less gross) when a child laughs at booger jokes, dances to music in the park, or eats sour things: