Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog

I am allergic to babies. You heard me. I don’t think they’re cute and I don’t want to hold yours. I am also not a mother. Maybe if I had been, some innate susceptibility to pudgy faces with big doey eyes and 10 little sausage fingers and 10 little stubby toes would have been awakened in me. But I am not a mother and I am uncomfortable around babies.

I always figured I wanted kids—I’m a woman—I’m supposed to—right? And as an only child I always said that if I had one I’d have one more. When I was 25 and going through a dark emotional time, I came to the conclusion that one’s purpose in life was procreation of the species. I figured I’d be helping the cause by the time I was 30.

Alas, then my only-child independence began to get in the way, and I know my lack of financial stability was a big hindrance as well. I was emotionally ready to be a mother, and kind of thinking that for me being a single mother would be preferable. However, I have never been in a position where I felt like I could afford to accomplish it on my own. And as I got older, my feeling that it was a necessary part of a currently satisfying life disappeared.

I am happy as I am, just looking out for Number One. Selfish? Yeah. That’s one of the things I attribute to onlyness. I never had to share. What I am fairly certain of, however, is that 20, 30 years down the road when I’m a spinster with 37 cats and 3 rabbits, I will have a big hole in my heart where offspring could, and possibly should, have been. I will feel huge regret that I never opened myself up to a family.

But that doesn’t mean I will go gaga for your baby. I will not.

photo © Shutterstock