I don't like kids. This isn't something that I'm quiet about. Although I haven't quite come to the place where I shake a hand and announce fervent disgust, but I'm close. First dates usually hit a rocky spot where I pin the guy with a spear-like glare to point out that the sexiest thing a man has ever said to me was, "I had a vasectomy". Thus, people usually have the good sense to keep their kids away from me.
Now that being said, I do like teenagers. I know this is strange, but I like how they can come up with reasoned arguments and are trying not to be little clones of their parents tyranny and lack of judgment. If you want to see what someone is really made of, look what they gave birth to. Someone who shall remain nameless that I will affectionately refer to as The Feather Dancer, for her amazing ability to live up everyone's nose, pushed out two such heinous beings that literally spew forth her worst habits for all of us to witness.
Example: On one fateful day, a large group of unsuspecting bipeds including myself ended up at her house where her little blond demons made two full rounds around the room belching in each guest's face. She let this continue until they began trying to move air out their other orifice. Because we all know that expelling gas from your face hole is much more acceptable then out your anus in polite company. The latest antic was to find an adult, tell him loudly that he had donkey teeth and then kick him in the shins repeatedly. Where is The Feather Dancer? She's busy watching the whole event with rapt disinterest. The only time that I've seen The Feather Dancer actually curb her children is when they enter my personal space. Why? Because I told her that I hate children and remind her of that as often as I can.
The question is, how does this happen? Is it simply that mean people breed smaller mean people, or do they learn from watching mom/dad be an asshole and decide that they want to do that too(!!). Although I don't agree with strong forms of capital punishment, there comes a point where you have to stop watching that little shit you gave birth to reign terror on others and do something about it. Having kids shouldn't be viewed with the same kind of intensity as buying a new Wii game. You can't just hope that you can be great buddies and figure that your job is done. Please, curb your kid and make sure it doesn't shit in my yard, run into me at the store, or perform other bodily functions for the sole glory of being the center of attention for that one beautiful minute.
For a year or two I worked in a pediatric ward for a long term care facility. Everyone had advanced cerebral palsy or some other extreme degenerative disability that basically equaled to no walking, talking or movement in general. I loved them. I thought they were wonderful, and let me tell you, when I tell people how they didn't walk or talk and I loved it, they always say, thats terrible!! Why? I still love them. Does it matter why as long as I show them affection and administer to their every need? Not really. Since half of them were there because of a neglectful parent either bashing them in the head, leaving a fever for too long, pregnancy drug use or getting into a car wreck, I don't think its really an issue for comment.
But its when I see little hellions running frantically with little to no parental control that I want to remind their folks: you are wonderful for continuing the species, that thing that I don't want to do for a myriad of reasons. But make sure that you mentor them to greater heights rather than to limit them with your own personal crap-fest. This is why I don't want to breed. I don't need it, nor do I have the burning desire to watch my personal genetic stamp march its way to the bus every morning.
So, I have a cat. I'm the single cat lady with only one feline friend, and its perfectly fine by me. Because when she decides she's pissed at me and pukes in my shoes, its only my shoes and not that of my neighbor or friend. I can keep my crappy parenting ability to myself, where it should be.
Mantra of the Non-Breeder: No Flesh-Loaves, Please.
