Babies, Babies, Babies - Part One

Is it just me, or has the world suddenly become over-run with strollers? Now don’t get me wrong, even though I am a childless by choice individual, I can relate to the overwhelming feelings of warmth and contentment that a joyful child can bring into your—fuck it, no I can’t. Who am I kidding?

What is wrong with this culture that makes it so obsessed with procreation? Human beings have such great potential in art, engineering, mathematics, agriculture and hundreds of other endeavors, but no one, it seems, feels fully satisfied till they hook up with someone who can stand the sight of them, do the unprotected nasty and shove the wailing freight train through the doughnut hole nine months later. From then on it’s a rewarding, whirlwind existence of whining, crying, pissing, shitting and sleep deprivation. What once was a high flying life of promise and fulfillment is suddenly grounded, it’s wings clipped and shoved into a small jail cell where it subsists on a diet of diapers, breast pumps, diaper bags, pre-chewed baby food, diaper services and diaper rash. And did I mention diapers?

There’s nothing more relieving than seeing the face of a new father after his first month of infant bliss; that exhausted, desperate, far away look, the bags under the eyes, the disheveled appearance, the unwashed hair, that expression that says “Holy Sainted Jesus on dry white toast, what did I get myself into?” Nothing makes me feel like I’ve dodged a bullet more.

But the saddest of all participants in this infantile carnival are the teen parents. You see them every day; she, the plump, nose-pierced mommy with the hip-hugger jeans and the lower back tattoo. He, with the Jim Morrison T-shirt, knit hat, hip-hop bling necklaces and a diaper bag over his shoulder. Together they look like dazed Hiroshima victims pushing the plastic stroller in which sits little Kayla or Brelee or Cody or whatever white trash, trailer park, soap opera name they’ve deemed to bestow on the snot-nosed little urchin. Talk about lost potential. Three victims; she had nothing else in her life but a part time job at a candle store and a used Ford Focus. But all her friends were having babies, and they seemed so cute and cuddly and helpless and (here’s the one that makes me want to vomit) they smell so good. They smell good? Hey, I like the smell of Cotton Candy at the fair, but that doesn’t mean I want to carry it around twenty-four hours a day and breast feed it.

And that hapless dude. He didn’t want a family. He didn’t have hopeful visions of daddy-hood in his future. He just wanted to party with his friends, dream about buying a new car and maybe get a little tail on a Saturday night. He was drunk, he was horny and she was every seventeen year old boys dream; a girl who says “yes.” One moment of clarity, one moment of ignoring your over-eager erection, one moment to drop a few quarters into a gas station condom machine and suddenly, life as he knows it doesn’t come to a screeching halt. But it’s always clearer in the rearview mirror.

And that poor baby. Oh, I know what you’re going to say, “Every child has the potential to be something special. If they work hard and apply themselves and follow their dreams, they could even be president.” Well…not really. I mean, let’s face it, we are all benefactors/victims of where we come from. Realistically, who has a better chance of becoming president; the upper middle class child from an emotionally and financially secure family with well meaning and well educated parents? Or the child of a sixteen year old, jobless, drop-out single mom who feeds her baby Ding-Dongs and Mountain Dew and pawns the baby off on her grandmother so she can go out on “dates” with the baby’s father; a part time hip-hop DJ and pot dealer named Daz Freek? Do the math, it ain’t rocket science.

The Pro-Life zealots are fond of saying “It’s a child, not a choice.” Well, actually, it’s both. Any child worth taking up space on this blue marble should be chosen carefully. Prospective Mommies and Daddies should plan carefully, look each other in the eye and decide that the unprotected sex they are about to partake in is responsibly chosen in order to bring life into the world. Till then, if you’re just lighting some candles, drinking some Merlot and gettin’ your freak on, then wrap it, stuff it, jelly it, stick it in a latex straight jacket and take the god damned pill, for Christ’s sake! I realize the “oopsie” factor to having babies probably applies to about three-quarters of the population (including my parents), but let’s get real. And let’s give our young people a chance to live their lives, make some smaller mistakes, learn, love and have children when it’s the proper time. A little sex education goes a long way. Along with safe, free birth control.

Family folks like to quote the Bible as saying “Be fruitful and multiply.” But I think that phrase got altered in translation. It should really read “Be fruitful (COMMA) and multiply.” Or better yet, “Be fruitful then multiply.” Maybe being fruitful doesn’t mean having the babies. Maybe it means making your life fruitful. Establish yourself, get a career, have some experience, discover true love, make some money then have a baby. Even birds build a nest and have some food to regurgitate before they lay eggs.

The fucking sparrows are practicing planned parenthood. Why can’t we?

I’m Anthony Wood. I’m angry. And I’m not wearing any pants.