Today I had a moment. No, it was not just a moment, it was an epiphany of a moment. You know, like the epiphany of moments that probably resulted in J.K. Rowling visualizing the Harry Potter series while broke and on her way home on a train? Now I had a epiphany of a moment today which totally opened my eyes to exactly how I feel about kids.
My mom had my youngest brother when I was seven years old. To me, he was my first child. I fed him. I changed him. I gave him baths. I combed his hair. I punished him. I comforted him when he was hurt. I helped him with his homework. I chastised him out when he is rude. We have our movie nights. He is very protective of me. He is my baby! Sure I didn’t give birth to him but he is still mine.
I don’t know how or when it happened but somewhere along the way I grew scared of babies. I had mental panic attacks when I held them and so, couldn’t hold them for long. No matter how cute they were, I preferred them big. I hated the thought of giving birth and found myself vowing I would only have one unless I ended up with twins. I couldn’t imagine having anymore. If I was honest to myself, I would have realized in that moment that I was fine not giving birth to any. I only started making those vows because it was what persons expected me to say. They had no meaning behind them.