I’m probably not the most mature person in the world. I like cartoons, and are way too much what my family thinks. I eat a completely absurd diet, and I don’t have the type of grand goals, and talents, that someone should have at my age. I’m kind of a mess, this I admit.
I’m also not in a hurry to have kids, and depending on my mood, kinda ambivalent about it. This isn’t so much an immaturity thing, as a firm belief in not having fucked up kids thing. I was a fucked up kid, with dysfunctional parents, one indifferent to me, and one controlling and suffocating. So, I have strong beliefs that not everyone is really suited to have children. So, maybe my aversion to shrill screaming is a sign of immaturity, or maybe it’s a sign that I’ve spent my whole damn life listening to shrill screaming, so the idea doesn’t hugely appeal to me.
I mean, I’m sure I will want kids, one I get married and all the jazz. They are cute, and I’m sure my own child I would love. Even with the screaming, and the pooping, and the puking. Even with the completely irreversible damage to my body. Even with the habit that some people who have kids have of being unable to talk about anything else. I have no doubt I’d adore my kids, but, I’m not in any hurry. Today. I go back and forth here, today I’m cynical and cranky, and all I an see if crying babies on the bus. Other days, I think that kids are really something great.
And, that’s the other thing- what if my kids aren’t so great? What if everyone hates them? What if they don’t have friends? What if I screw them up, just because I don’t know what normal looks like. My children have a decent chance of being nearsighted and antisocial. Maybe they’ll be good too, maybe they’ll be smart and funny…but I wasn’t so funny as a kid (assuming you even believe that I’m funny now), that’s a defense mechanism. A result of my tortured upbringing. A self-deprecating result of my deeply-seeded issues.
But, I don’t want my kids to be like me. I want my kids to be better. To be normal. To be happy. Most of all to just be happy, I have a hard time remembering being truly consistently happy. I don’t want my kids to be like that. I want them to be liked. And, I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to insist that. I don’t know how to make sure I do things right with them, and tho I screw up things all the time, kids are one thing I wouldn’t want to screw up.
So, until they would have parents who love them, and until they could live someplace nice, and until I figure out how to make sure they aren’t like me, I’m not ready for kids. The puke and the poop are just side effects. And, maybe that makes me immature, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m immature beause I eat ice ream for dinner….