To breed, or not to breed? That is the question...

I come from a long line of breeders. My biological mother is a breeder, and her mother was quite the breeder (6 of them). My sister is too a breeder. It is said that when two people come together whose love is so great, a new life is formed from that very love. In my sister's case, and perhaps her predecessors cases (who knows, my family doesn't talk to me), her lust was so great that is caused her to be completely careless a documented total of three times. Thankfully, evolution did not cease on the isle of Galapagos. I, as a witness to poor choices in those breeding precipitously around me, have other ideas.

Living at home again with my post-stroke father goes a little like this: wake up in fear that I've slept in too long (as I normally liked to when I was free) and prevented him from doing his tasks (seeing that I'm his chauffeur and all), feed him, shuttle him around all day, feed him, then clean up after him.

So today, I start my routine and prepare my dad's meal of the day--no salt, not too much fat--and I set his plate and take it to him. He takes it from me and says nothing. Actually, he grunted. Yes. That was his response. Then he eats his food and I clean up. After I'm done with that, then I can eat. As I'm snorting down my food, he brings his plate to the kitchen and sets it on the counter for me to clean. Fortunately for my shattered soul's sake, he says the food was good. There is a trace of a smile on his face. I see it, faintly. I regard my mom's adult life with compassion and pity as I load the dish washer and wipe down the stove. Being in my dad's life currently is a lot like being a mother, or a maid for that matter, because both terms are momentarily interchangeable. Your day isn't necessarily yours, and it is made up of being responsible for another person, doing things for them, feeding them, cleaning up after them, taking them places, and all of this is taken as a given. There is no "thank you." It's your job. Being a parent has never been less appealing to me.

I suppose biological programming is clever that way, because when you create another human being, is comes out small, cute (hopefully) and fresh. The ploy lies in the fact that your offspring initially presents itself to you in a uncomplicated and desirable way. They just need to eat, sleep, be held and played with. You grow attached to this thing. Your like your creation. I love this thing, you say. I can do this. This is mine. This is my life. It sure is...

But then it grows and doesn't get any less needy. It may even become less cute. It needs more. And it begins to ask questions and beg and complain and monopolize your day and psychologically destroy you, without so much as a "thank you." Why? Because it's your job. This is what you signed up for. But no one ever told you that. It was merely alluded to. Perhaps you can recall a time when your parents spitefully told you at the height of their frustration, "Wait until you have kids," whilst they covetously rubbed their mitts together, awaiting their redemption. I aim not to give them such satisfaction.

No, I have never been more apt to reject the idea of breeding. Ultimately, I wish for my life to be mine and not someone elses. I like waking up and being able to decide what to do with my day. I'm selfish like that. Giving up my time is a loathed, dreadful idea that I don't appreciate one bit.

Yet...I am fearful. I am fearful of the female biological programming that will come into play, scooting my present, clear headed reasoning by the wayside. Like a wrench thrown into the spoke of a moving bicycle, I sense love will eventually serve to ruin my life as a free woman. Maybe that's why it hasn't happened for me yet, and I'm alone as fuck...or at least it feels better when I think about it that way. Sharing my life, i.e., marriage--that's ok. I can do that. But giving it away...handing it off like a baton in a life long race I'll never win, well, not so much.

I suppose the "no kids" conclusion seems to make sense while I'm young and vibrant, but when my womb is a barren wasteland, and the coin flips and I'm the one who needs to be shuttled around and cooked for and cleaned up after, what will become of me? Who will wipe the drool from my bubbling lips? Meh, who am I kidding? Having children solely as a preventative measure to being debilitated by old age is pathetic and a pretty good indicator that I'm not fit for the job. Still, I won't say I'll never have kids. That's just a set up for appeasing my parent's eagerness to get their payback. But I will sure as hell put up a good fight.