soopastryheart

I worked at a gym throughout college. This gym offered a daycare center for its members, and this daycare center was located just yards away from the front desk, my unofficial designation. We shared a wall. There was no door.

On good days, I’d watch tiny toddlers wash the windows with their tongues or attempt to fit an entire jam-covered fist in their jam-covered mouths. On not-so-good days, I’d watch kids pick their noses with their thumbs (and then ever so delicately, deposit the nasal treasures in their mouths) and purposely dump entire Ziploc bags of Cheerios on the floor for no other reason than wanting to watch me sweep it up. On the I-don’t-get-paid-enough-for-this-shit days, these kids made me question my inner sociopath – I would regularly warn my boss that I was thisclose to attacking them with a Bosu. These kids could scream (without provocation) with impressive bravado, without so much as a hiccup for air, and all I could do was sit on my hands and keep from reaching for anything that could be used as a weapon (barbells, phone cords, staplers, etc).

This gym’s clientele catered to the Range Rover/second home in Whistler/wine club demographic. These were people who thought it was perfectly okay to name their kids after exotic spices and herbs or Shakespearean characters (Orsenio? Really?). It was not an odd occurrence to see 3-year-old Cassia wearing a pair of True Religions or carrying around a bottle of Voss, so I was used to their general lack of awareness for adult authority. If I asked repeatedly for Sage or Titus to cease banging against the glass doors with their iPods, they would only respond by tapping into their inner Travis Barker, and promptly banging harder and louder.

Saturday mornings were the worst because kids too old for daycare were still allowed to sit in the lobby (an area directly adjacent to my workspace). These were the kids on a private school power trip. They would raise the volumes on the cartoons to a point where I would be yelling through the phone (on rare occasions I could hear it ring). They would wipe assorted nasal secretions on the couches, walls, and each other. I watched a girl head-butt another and fought like hell to contain my laughter when it was revealed the recipient of said head-butt had chipped a tooth. On more than one occasion, a kid shit his pants – a kid who had to be no less than seven-years-old to be sitting in the big kids club lobby.

With every blood-curling scream and sudden wave of suspicious smells, I could feel my ovaries shrink, my fallopian tubes coil, and my uterus shouting “oh hay-ell nah”. I found little use for birth control – the Saturday morning shift had all but assured my legs would remain firmly locked at the knees.

Eventually, I conditioned myself to tune it out. The screaming, the yelling, the pooping, it all became white noise (and white smell?). Daycare was beyond my job description, and definitely beyond my pay grade. They were not my responsibility or my obligation. If they wanted to practice high kicks on each other’s faces, who was I to stop them? Trainees would stare at me with wide-eyed admiration and asked me how I seemed oblivious to the pint-sized gladiators. I just shrugged and explained how to replace the paper roll on the credit card machine.

I don’t want to make it sound like every kid who came into daycare was a foot soldier of Satan, because there were a few who didn’t make me want to commit violent crimes. I even ended up regularly babysitting for two boys who not only refrained from regularly testing their lung capacities, but also were charmingly polite and well mannered.

See, it’s not that I’m bad with kids. Quite the contrary in fact – I was eleven when my mom dropped the bomb that she was pregnant (at 39, no less), and twelve when Honie rolled into our lives. I changed diapers. I gave baths. I temperature-tested breast milk. I became accustomed to being shushed whenever she was napping. I gritted my teeth when she tore the head off a Barbie doll I had for over a decade. I tolerated her eating my 20-dollar lip balm.

On the rare occasions my parents make the mistake of asking when they should expect grandchildren, I retort by asking if they’re okay with Honie being a teen mom. I point to my mom’s stretch marks, shake my head, and say, “no thank you”. I tell them that I’d be the type of mother you hear about on the news, ones who drive around for blocks with the baby in the car seat on top of the car. Kids are messy. Kids are expensive. Kids are a pain in the ass. Kids I can handle for a few hours at a time, but every hour of every day? I think I’d rather have my fingernails torn off by a pair of rusty pliers. Or subjected to a marathon of Jersey Shore.

And while I can sit here and joke about all the ways I would be an unfit mother, the truth is, they are all excuses to the real reason I am more than a little hesitant about becoming a parent. The real reason? I am fucking terrified of that responsibility.

You know that gut-twisting cloud of doubt and fear that washes over you when you get pulled over? As you see the patrolman walking towards you in your side-view mirror, you rewind your brain for an instant replay, trying to pinpoint all the mistakes you may have made. Maybe you were speeding or didn’t come to a full stop… but suddenly, you’re irrationally worried about crimes you haven’t committed, as if you have a dead body stuffed in the trunk, next to the twenty-kilo of coke. The point is, whenever I get pulled over, I am immediately overwhelmed with the things I have not done. Logic and sanity escape me. I panic. I am ready to confess to murder.

So multiply that by a hundred and that’s how I feel about being a mother, a parent, a human being wholly and indisputably responsible for the growth and well being of another.

Wait Soo, I thought you had aspirations to be a pediatric cardiac surgeon?

Yes, I see how you could be confused. In terms of having another life in your hands, it doesn’t get more metaphorical or literal than that. Going in there, repairing whatever damage to extend and improve the quality of living… that’s life in the biological sense. I could take on that challenge. But the life outside the hospital, the life before and after the trip to the OR, that’s the kicker. I have to worry about the technical stuff, you, the parent, get to worry about everything else. I don’t have to worry about how much television your kids watch or which college-preparatory school is the best. My opinion would only be medical, meaning you’re on your own with the rated R movie debate. Your daughter’s nose ring is irrelevant to me, unless it develops an infection.

I would mew over every decision, major or minor, worrying that I would make the incorrect one. I would make pro/con lists about sleepovers or little leagues. Sure, toddler t-ball could teach teamwork and promote healthy habits, but what if he clubs himself in the face? What if the coach is a pervert? How do parents handle the stress? How do they stop themselves from becoming paranoids, or talk themselves down from creating highly improbable, totally fictional situations?

The truth is, I am far too much of a nut job to be a good parent.

If I had chosen the private school over the public, could my kid have gone to Harvard and found a cure for cancer and AIDS? Did I stunt a growing prodigy when I pulled her out of those piano lessons? If Theodus gets injured in a freak peewee soccer game that cripples him for life, could I ever forgive myself?

And even if you mean well, even with the best intentions, what about all the latent things kids pick up from their parents? If I were short with the barista, would my kid subconsciously learn to belittle others? If after a particularly frustrating phone call with my mother, I roll my eyes and call her crazy, would I be unintentionally giving my kid permission to do the same to me someday? What about all the traits and habits I inadvertently pass on by simply being me?

Learning by osmosis. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ve seen it first hand. My mom and I didn’t think twice about censoring our dressing room conversations when Honie tagged along during our shopping excursions. My mom would point out the unflattering cut of the skirt, saying it made my thighs look big. I would vocally acknowledge the pudge developing around my mid-section, and my mom would suggest I lay off the dorm food a bit. Honie was little, just starting to read her hand-me-down Dr. Seuss books, and it never crossed my mind that she was absorbing it all in. It wasn’t until a few months later when she refused to wear certain clothes citing “caveman arms” and “muffin top” as reasons that I realized the kind of effect my absentminded opinions had on her.

And I was horrified. She was just a kid – barely being able to tie her shoelaces or pour milk in her cereal without spilling half the carton on the countertop – and already I had accidentally installed in her my insecurities and superficiality. I didn’t want that for her; I didn’t want to teach her anything that I remotely disliked about myself. Honie was going to be a masterpiece, a precocious and refined work of art. She was going to be sassy and smart. She was going to be classy and ladylike, and independent and strong. Basically, she was going to achieve everything I had attempted and failed. She was going to get it right, and I would lead her. I would be her Jiminy Cricket, her fairy godmother, her yellow brick road.

But as soon as I realized that Honie not only learned but also understood what it meant to be insecure, I knew I had already failed. I had already made a dent in her perfection. And worst of all, I had no idea I was doing so.

I don’t know how my parents, or any parents for that matter – do what they do without going completely crazy. There are so many ways to screw up your kid, intentional or not – so how do you raise them without doubting every choice you make? How do you protect without being overbearing? What things can you blatantly teach your kid and what things do you allow experiences to teach? When do you push? When do you pull back? How do you balance everything so your kid has the best chance? How do you stop worrying? How do you know you’re doing it right? Or is it just a blind shot, hoping for the best?

Honie will be thirteen in June. Thirteen. Teen. The chubby cheeks are gone. So is the waddling. The days of subjecting her to ridiculous outfits, trying to get her to unknowingly say “asshole” and “fucktard”, and blaming her for surprise farts are long gone. These days, she’s perfected the art of the condescending eye roll and has an entire wardrobe centered around skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. Suddenly, I’m hearing phrases like, “leave me alone” and “that’s private” (both usually followed up by, “…you psycho”). I am reminded, a little more everyday, that she has approached an age where I will have to begin to respect the fact that she has secrets. My role as the primary confidant and advice-giver is being slowly phased out and substituted by her friends. And sometimes, I take a step back to wonder… how much of me is incorporated in who she has become? How much have I influenced her? How much have I accidentally taught her? Has she learned anything from me at all? When she makes a mistake that eerily resembles one I made at her age, I question whether or not I should have helped prevent it. When I catch her being a little more than snippy with my mom, I can’t reprimand her without feeing guilty and hypocritical.

And I don’t think I’ll be able to escape the lure of naming my kids after French songstresses or great novels (is Gatsby too much?). I too have fought the urge to buy Honie a pair of $100 Ugg boots when she couldn’t even walk up the stairs. My mom has assured me that all kids pick their noses. And most of them wipe them incongruous places, so I shouldn’t expect mine to be different. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if my kid’s preschool teacher tells me that my kid has developed a habit of shaking a turd out of his pants. I don’t think I’ll be able to hide my disappointment when my kids aren’t baby-geniuses, cello sensations, or Nobel Prize winning ambassadors. And more than anything, I’ll be crushed if my kids turn out anything like me.

This is why I can’t imagine becoming a mother. If anything, I need to spare the world, limit the possibility of having more neurotic lunatics like me running around.

I mean, could you imagine?