The Matter with Kids (#201)

I’m convinced that most American parents didn’t realize how much work raising a kid was when they decided to have one.

 If they did, we’d have a negative birthrate.

Having a child changes your life irrevocably, in that you will have at least eighteen years with no life. A good parent prioritizes their child’s needs, especially during infancy. They endure a constant state of deprivation: sleep deprivation, cleanliness deprivation, time deprivation, and quiet deprivation.

If you think I know this because my parents were such awesome role models, you must be a new reader. I had a front row seat to the shit show Too Many Children, in which an angry, stressed father lashed out at the kids he never wanted. My siblings and I grew up overly competitive, judgmental, and mean. We were terrible at relationships and had eating disorders.

So of course there was a sequel after my parents divorced and found new spouses: Let’s Have More Children and Fuck Them Up, Too.

As needy teenagers, we were pressed into service, caring for baby half-siblings. We learned how to change diapers, prepare bottles, clean up vomit, and identify everything from strep to roseola.

College, even with 18-21 credits a semester, felt like a vacation. No cooking. No childcare. Only my own laundry to fold.

And my vomit stain removal skills made me popular.

I knew how much work babies were. Which was why I’d hoped to be making more money than my husband when his biological clock started ticking. Then Andy could stay home with the baby he wanted. Just like my Judgmental Genius Doctor Sister and her husband, Georgia Boy.

But Andy’s clock started its final countdown while he made the money that paid our mortgage.

I tried to beat back that damned clock with a reality check.

“If we have a baby, there’s no more talk about quitting your job to run a Bed & Breakfast in New Hampshire,” I warned him. “Not for eighteen years or until I can make money. Babies need health insurance. You’ll have to max out your health care spending account. Baby proof the house. Turn the guest room into a nursery. Give up your dreams of making the extra fridge into a kegerator, even.”

“That’s okay,” Andy said. He hugged me and said dreamily, “A baby.”

I stepped out of the hug. “You know a baby is a screaming machine that only shuts down a few hours at a time, and spits out bodily fluids like the girl in The Exorcist, right? And you know we have to do it ourselves. Twenty-four seven. There’s no convenient grandparent to spirit the baby away on weekends or anything. My mom is dead. My other parental units are too far away.”

“Maybe my parents could come help—”

“Are you outta your goddamned mind?!” I shrieked. Normally I try to be diplomatic about Andy’s intrusive Chinese-American parents, but that kind of insanity had to be nipped in the bud. I chucked marital diplomacy under the bus and raised my voice several decibels. “Your parents treat me like a servant. They expect me to wait on them, how can I do that and take care of a baby?! Plus they nearly burned down our house on their last visit.”

Andy prudently opted not to pursue that tack. “Well, I can help. I can take 3 months of family leave.”

“Yeah, but it’s not paid leave, because the United States sucks,” I grumbled.

Andy, anticipating a delightful, three-month vacation from work — because he truly was clueless about babies — looked crushed. “We don’t have enough in our joint savings to cover that.”

“No. We don’t,” I agreed. Our lack of funds could have tabled all the baby talk. Only my husband looked so very sad. Also, I didn’t want to keep secrets that could be thrown in my face when Andy was fifty and moaning over mythical lost children. “I do, um, have some mutual funds that I could cash out,” I admitted with a sigh. “My grandparents started them when I was a baby. For college. I never used them all up.” Who knew getting a scholarship and graduating in three years would bite me in the ass a decade-and-a-half later?

“I married an heiress!” Andy crowed. He kept crowing as he calculated the fund’s value, which would cover our mortgage and bills for almost exactly three months. Then he gave me a side eye. “Hey. Wait a minute. What other assets have you been hiding from me? ”

“They also gave me 100 shares of Kroger stock.” My paternal grandfather had been a successful tax attorney. My grandmother methodically divested various assets when financially prudent, usually before December 31st.

“Wow. All this stuff you never told me about.”

“Ahem. That’s all pre-marriage stuff and you’re not entitled to it and what if you’d turned out to be a dick and cleaned out our bank accounts and ran off with someone from work?”

Andy gave a shout of laughter. “Have you seen the women I work with?”

“No, because your work is top-secret, I’m not allowed in the building, and it has no windows,” I reminded him. “And how very reassuring that you’re not sampling the work buffet because the food there is so unappetizing.”

“Oh, c’mon, honey. We’ve been together for 5 years. When were you gonna decide I wasn’t a dick?”

“After maybe eleven years, I guess. My dad lasted ten years a couple times.”

“Geez,” Andy said, but he wasn’t really upset. He knew all about Dad and also it’s hard to be upset when your wife makes thousands of dollars magically appear. “We could really do this! And I could stay home with our newborn, too!”

I tossed a Hail Mary. “Or we could take the money and start that B&B you sometimes talk about.”

“No,” Andy shook his head emphatically. “Too risky. Let’s stick to the plan. You keep writing, we have baby, I keep working, and we use the company’s health insurance.”

“Then this is YOUR idea, okay? I just want to make that clear up front. You are responsible. I never want to hear any complaints. No whining ever about how it wrecked your life, okay? No complaining about how much it all costs, or how you had to give up your dream of a B&B. You chose baby. You never get to go back. Every sleepless night, every trip to the Emergency Room, all the costs of whatever sport this kid plays, the higher education costs – this is on you.”

Andy shrugged and said, “That’s fine. I chose baby. Baby!” He swooped in for another hug. I didn’t dodge this one, though I merely stood in his embrace, rigid.

Andy whispered, “Not your dad, honey.”

And then I hugged him back.

A Walgreens Christmas (#162)

When Judgmental Genius Doctor Sister settled down with Georgia Boy, I thought they were doomed. Dr. Sis typical of our overachieving white family: type A squared, super competent, goal-oriented, impatient, and INCREDIBLY judgmental. She worked hard for her full scholarship to college, she won her medical school graduation, she kicked ass in her residency, and she destroyed her oncology fellowship at MD Anderson while coping with a difficult pregnancy. (For five months, Dr. Sis operated on patients while wearing a shitload of icepacks to stay conscious.)

Georgia Boy, well, as Dr. Sis put it, “fell into every bit of good luck possible.” Continue reading A Walgreens Christmas (#162)

The North Polar Bear (#105)


When my elementary school classmates found out my parents were divorcing, they showered me with horrified questions.

“Are you mad?’

“Are you sad?”

“Are you going to try and get them back together? Like The Parent Trap?”

That last one was clearly from a naïve only child in a loving home. (The Parent Trap is the stupidest movie ever, BTW. Yes, both times.) I heaped scorn on her, of course. “No way! They should never, ever live in the same house AGAIN!” Continue reading The North Polar Bear (#105)