“Juno” was not a good choice of movie for tonight. Or the current year. My hormones have been fucking with my skull for an eternity now. I get down to Kraken-scale depths of depression and general idiocy, thinking “I want to have a baby”. Me! Anybody who knows me, knows I don’t like kids much. At least not in the pooping, screaming, barfing, fun-sized exorcist pack. And here I am, my brain filled with hormonal madness, my ancient genetic imperative hammering inside my head “propagate the species! The Humans march on”.
Shit, my dad would have a (third) heart attack if he read this blog post. He thinks that being a mum is something a female person should do at a young age, so she can grow with the baby. Yeah, good one, dad. You’re not the one who ends up with the stretchmarks, sagging tits and a vag the size of an airport hangar. Plus, this growing-with-the-kid shtick… The whole family knows how that one turned out for my nephew…
I know... he's adorable... but he won't be able to tie his shoes...
My OCD, extremely practical nurse of a mum would say that kids should be postponed as much as possible. She had me at 38. Way to push your luck there, mum. Not only does the risk of the kid having Down’s after the age of 36, but hey, you might drop dead before the kid makes it to 18. Thankfully, she didn’t. I hope she never does, or that somebody invents a stasis chamber a bit before she’s suppose to. She has instilled in me the fear of having kids or having kids early, not sure which.
One thing that neither of my parents can be conveniently blamed for is that I think babies are gross. I mean, they’re always sticky. They smell funky most of the time. They can’t tell you what’s wrong if something’s wrong. They just scream at you and you have to guess what they need. They burp and spew and shit and piss constantly. And who cleans them up? You do!
Have you seen the price tag on one of those things?! You could buy a friggin Lamborghini with the cost that these little monsters impose upon you. They need diapers. Loads of diapers. And powder. And cream, so they don’t chafe. And then you have to feed them… well, once you’ve dried up and you can tuck your boobs into your socks. There’s fruity stuff and veggie stuff. But it’s not all good. It must be organic. What the hell is organic anyway? They need bottles and baby monitors and cribs and strollers and those chewy things for when they start teething…
adorable...
And then come the clothes! Oh, good Batman, deliver us from the clothes. It’s evil. Evil in fabric form. I mean, the outfits, they’re so cute. You have to buy tons of them. Have you noticed how anything tiny is almost automatically cute? So you buy a plethora of tiny clothes and shoes and itsy bitsy socks and beanies. And what does the little bundle of joy do to say thanks? It grows out of them! In a matter of months! All that good cash. WHOOSH! Gone! There used to be this awesome tradition, which my mum used to do and my aunt… come to think of it, my whole family and a couple of families connected to ours. One kid grows out of the clothes, you give them to another kid that is the convenient size. Hand-me-downs. At least til the graph of the growth function is at a less steep angle.
I firmly believe, like them or hate them, if you’re gonna have a kid, you should plan ahead. Even if it’s a “happy” accident or something. If you’re having it, have it right. Don’t do a half-ass job of it. No kid signs a request to be born (this is my mum’s one). You’re having it, you take care of it. Or don’t have it. I’m so pro-choice, it’s not even funny. Some people just aren’t meant to be parents. I don’t know if I’m one of those people, but if a condom breaks or I forget to take my pill or I get raped, I want the option of not going through with having a child. And I don’t want some religious, frustrated Jesus freak telling me it’s murder. It isn’t. And even if it is, are you telling me you’ve never squished a mosquito in your whole life? Because it’s about the same, if done early on. Cast the first stone now, bitch! 😛
Ok, I admit, that’s a bit harsh, but hey, it’s sometimes the only way to get a point across. Anyway, back to my original ranting.
there... now it has all the cash
So even if I am one day financially secure enough to be responsible for one more person, how to go about it? Do I find some guy, fall in love, have a baby, stop paying attention to each other, start resenting him, start resenting the kid, turn bitter and repressed, ruin the lives of all three? Do I walk into a sperm bank, ask for certain qualities and have a nice date with a test tube, holding my fingers crossed that it works? Have a one night stand with Studly McStudPants and have his little racers spread his glorious biker DNA all over my lucky little egg cell? Or do I adopt?
I totally forgot where I was going with this, but, PS… Best pay I can hope for is 2.000 euros per month. I just calculated on some weird-ass baby calculator thing that the average cost of raising a kid is about 151.307 euros. But lets round it up to an even 200.000, because you know you’re gonna need presents and field trips and parties and shit… That is 11.200 per year (for 18 years) which is almost 1000 euros per month. How would I pay my rent?!
You don’t call. You don’t write.
1) Cimetière du Montparnasse
Ovako izgleda komad gorgonzole. Pogledajte pažljivo. Kome god deluje odvratno na prvi pogled, ima moju punu moralnu podršku. Jer zaista… budimo objektivni… izgleda grozno. Ali! Uvek postoji ali. Ali, to ne znači da ga ne treba probati. Ko god, na osnovi izgleda, odbija da proba gorgonzolu ce dobiti dvadeset udaraca varjačom po pozadini od eDomaćice. Jesam opasna, a? 😉
Ah, vreme je užasno. Tačno prelazni period između nemaštine na koju naviknemo zimi i šarenila raznoraznih voćki i povrćki koje donosi leto. Da citiram zeku iz ‘Čudesne šume’: Mrzim mrkve iz frižidera. S tim da je u pitanju paradajz i nije iz frižidera nego je iz staklenika. Em je ogroman, em je zelen iznutra, em ne miriše na paradajz, em nema ukus ni na šta. Zato sam se odlučila za pomodorine. Jednostavno su izgledali bolje. Mislim, vidi sliku. Nisu li precakani?
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