I am twenty three years old.
I am entirely too young to have a kid.
Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not pregnant. Not even a little bit. Sorry to scare you…I can see how the opening I just used there might be the start of a conversation that would end in, “So, I need ten thousand dollars for prenatal care and Doritos.” I just wanted to emphasize that while there are many people my age who are fantastic mothers, I would not be one, and I am aware of that.
The issue is that every once in awhile I still get what an old friend of mine refers to as ‘the baby hungries’.
It’s a peculiar phenomenon that strikes without warning. I will be happily going about my day in my decidedly unmarried lifestyle, all spending eighty bucks on colored pencils and drinking irresponsibly while I draw pictures of ducks, and then it hits. Some lady or dude walks by with a little bundle of cute. I make eye contact with said bundle of cute, and suddenly my ovaries are punching me in the head shouting, “WE WANT ONE WE WANT ONE. WHY DON’T WEEEEE HAVE ONE.”
For the next week or so after this occurrence, babies are goddamn EVERYWHERE. Grocery shopping? Baby. Restaurant? Baby. Taking a walk? Baby. Even in the comfort of my own home, if I leave the windows open too long inevitably there will be a baby at the bus stop, staring me down with its big blue eyes.
“What?” Taylor asks, noticing that I am not paying attention to the episode of Anthony Bourdain we are watching
“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t hear anything over the sound of my ovaries screaming.”
It is like a baby epidemic. It seems like a well-coordinated conspiracy. No matter where I go, I will be followed by a snuggly army of wuvvable widdle tykes, wielding their teething rings and footy pajamas as dangerous implements in the Reproductive Wars.
Just as it seems like I am about to be drowned in the unstoppable Tide Of Babies, they all vanish. My Facebook clears of baby photos like clouds dissipating after a heavy rain. The stores are once again filled with the college students and aging hippies that my town loves so well, and there is nary a cry to be heard in the hallowed halls of our favorite eateries. My rampaging ovaries, having little fuel for their tirade, quiet down and go back to doing whatever they were doing before, and allow me to remember that a baby would be fun for like ten minutes until I realized that it can’t do its own laundry.
I reiterate, I am not ready to have a kid of my own, but my hormones are doing their darndest to convince me otherwise.
Anyone else get crazy cases of the baby hungries? Am I alone on this?