There, I said it.  Another one of my secretes is out.

It’s not like I wish ill on any child (in fact, I only have the best wishes and hopes for all children).  I don’t mean I hate them or anything like that.  Just that, I’m not a real big fan of most kids.  My much young step-siblings drove me crazy as a teenager and I have never really spent a lot of time with babies.  Really, kids just have never been a big part of my life and I’ve never gravitated towards them.

Throughout my entire life, I have never really liked kids. On the rare occasion that I was asked to babysit as teenager (only after my older sister was unavailable – she was always asked first), I never wanted to.  No child was ever seriously hurt under my watch, but I just didn’t really enjoy my time with the kids.  I worried about breaking them and I was equally annoyed by their constant need for attention.

And, more specifically, I have never really liked spending a lot of time with babies.

Most people seem to oooo and ahhh when babies giggle or squeeze your hand.  But not me.  Honestly, these things have never really impressed me.  Rather, they just seem normal.  This is what they are supposed to do, so sure it’s good that they are doing it, but I’ve never understood the adult celebration involved.  I’ve never been one for baby talk and one to turn to mush at the sight of a baby.  And I’ve never been one to be overly empathetic or sympathetic (until miscarriage/RPL, that sorta of started to change me into a slightly more empathetic person).

Rather, I just see babies as pooing machines.  Oh and crying machines too.  Really, babies in my mind are kind of boring.  They cry.  They poo.  They cry again and then they poo again.  And sometimes they do both at the same time.

Yes, there are some kids in my life now, like our nephews and our friend’s kids that I love deeply and enjoy spending time with.  But, would I offer to babysit their children?  Probably not unless it was an emergency in which case I would in a heartbeat.

And yet, I’m doing everything in my power to have one and maybe two….

Something about this picture doesn’t make a whole heck of a lot of sense to me.  In fact, this makes me think I’m crazy and also makes me worry greatly for my families future.  For my future.  For Mr. MPB’s future.  And most of all, for our child’s future.

I honestly don’t have a maternalistic bone in my body.  In fact, if such a thing exists, I’m pretty sure mine has been broken since birth.  And now that we are actively waiting for a match, I seem to have too much time on my hands to contemplate what this means for myself and our family.

Does this mean that I will help mold a child who isn’t compassionate or in touch with their emotions?  Or maybe that our child will be closed off to some of the deeper human emotions (you know, the ones that result in the creation of My Perfect Breakdown).  Or maybe it means that our child will grow up feeling immense pressure to do better and only celebrate the big successes in life?  Or maybe it means I am going to put so much pressure on our child that they will nearly cry at the sight of a 90% for fear that they didn’t do well enough (they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree).

Thankfully, Mr. MPB is meant to have children.  More so then me.  He has that natural ability to nurture and to care, it comes to him without being forced.  He’ll be good at 4 am feedings and great at diaper changes, he’ll master the swaddle in 2 seconds flat and he’ll love baby cuddles.  That said, I’m still not sure that he’s the type of person to celebrate the fact that a baby can hold their head up or to engage in endless hours of baby talk.

Really, I just don’t know how we are going to do it.

He’ll be good at this stuff, of that I’m sure.  Yet, I’m equally sure that I’ll be miserable at it.  I’m pretty convinced that my broken maternal bone means that our kid is screwed. Really, what chance do they have?

Part of me hopes that when we do have a child, my mothering skills magically appear.  Yet, part of me realizes that I am who I am and that just might not happen.

I think I’ll be a somewhat competent parent once our child reaches the age of 2.  Or maybe 6.  I’ve just never related to babies that well.  Heck, kids don’t tend to like me much either, usually they hide from me or run to their parents or Mr. MPB or really any other human being within a 30 km radius.  Maybe, I’ll be a decent parent when our kid is about 12 years old, but by then they’ll be broken enough (or maybe smart enough) to keep their distance.

I guess if nothing else, I will continue to hope that somehow our child will take after their father and somehow turn out alright in spite of all the mistakes I will make, likely on a daily basis!

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