Who Doesn’t Like Babies?

 

The current trend in thinking is that empowerment requires people seeing others who look like them in careers they want to have. 

Although empowerment wasn’t a word I heard growing up, I’ve never thought of it as something others conferred, but something that comes from within. Glass ceilings and empowerment never concerned me. The world was full of possibilities, and if I wanted something, who was the rest of the world to tell me I couldn’t have it?

From my earliest memories, I had a set of things I was never going to be: a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, a waitress, a salesclerk or a mom. I had nothing against people who had those jobs; I simply didn't want them for myself. Oddly, those were pretty much the only things girls could aspire to in those days. Every girl I knew dreamed of getting married and having babies. My other “nevers” were what they would do until they had those babies.

I used to tell my mother I didn’t want to be a secretary, I wanted to have a secretary. She would shake her head and say, “Yes, dear,” and then proceed to tell me why girls didn’t do those things.

Says who? My brothers could aspire to the jobs I wanted. Why should I be punished because my father failed to give me a Y chromosome? I never understood why my parents wanted a girl in the first place, if all I was doomed to become was someone less than. I had no use for a life as a second-class human, which was all someone limited to a few career choices was, in my book.

The message I heard given to my brothers was that they could grow up to be anything they wanted. Well then, I wanted a piece of that, too.

But according to my mother’s thinking, I was a girl, so it didn’t matter what silly thing I wanted to be, I’d have to give it up when I got married and had babies.

Babies? I didn’t want to have babies!

Of course, according to her, all girls wanted to have babies, and I’d change my mind when I was older.

I didn’t see that happening. I didn’t want to be a girl in the first place. I don’t even particularly like babies.

Gasp! That’s a horrible thing to say! Don’t ever tell anyone that!

The fact is, I didn’t, and still don’t. Brief encounters with them are fine, seeing pictures are fine, but having to spend an extended amount of time with them is for others, not for me. Babies are boring. They’re noisy, don’t keep regular hours, and they really don’t do much besides eat, excrete, and cry. I’ve never been a fan of people that needy.

My dolls were not precursors of future babies. They were substitutes for the friends I frequently didn’t have.

When I learned the facts of life on where babies came from, and all of the horrors women had to put up with for the “privilege” of having babies, I was determined that babies weren’t for me. 

Just as not everyone is college material, not all women are meant for motherhood. I never yearned for it. I had no concept of a biological clock. As I’ve always said, if God had intended me to be a parent, I would’ve been born male. Since I wasn’t, all bets are off.

Besides, what if no one wanted to marry me? Considering the fact that no one asked until I was 38 and I didn’t marry until I was 39, my young adulthood bore that idea out. 

I was never boy crazy. When friends married at 19 or 20, I thought, good luck with that. I have things that are more important to me.

Okay, that meant I’d need to pursue a career. So there, Mother!

While circumstances have, at times, put me in the situation where I had to, for a time, be a teacher and a salesclerk – the latter because the former in a Catholic school didn’t pay enough to keep body and soul together – I did not stay in that situation for very long.

In college, I was a food service worker, although not a waitress. But that was to maintain some amount of financial independence from my parents without interfering with my classes, and to finance my semester abroad that my parents couldn’t afford to give me. (“If you want to do it, you have to be able to pay for it. We can’t. And if you think about calling home asking for more money, don’t.”)

I also had to do food service when I first graduated because I couldn’t get a job in my field without experience. Of course, one cannot get experience without a job. This is why you don’t see me on the nightly news.

Fortunately, I didn’t have the right skill set to ever be a secretary. In those days of sexism, before HR and sexual harassment rules, secretaries were expected to make and serve coffee. I still don’t know how to make coffee, since I don’t drink it. And had a boss ever called me “honey” and patted me on the butt, I would have decked him, and been looking for a new job the same day.

No, in truth, the way I was “groomed” as a child, I would have been too shy to actually deck the boss. Instead my letter of resignation would have been on his desk the next morning. Fortunately, I didn’t have to learn secretarial skills in high school since I was in college prep classes.

I never went anywhere near a nursing career. Instead, by default of not being able to get into the career of my choice, I ended up in a healthcare career that, while somewhat rewarding, meant I spent 30 years in a career I never actually wanted.

And my career did involve working with children. I do like school-aged children, even the preschoolers -- as long as they're not "runners". The advantage that my job had was that at the end of the day, I gave them back and went home to my dog – and eventually to a husband.

But where my colleagues go gaga over babies and toddlers, I step back and say, “No, thank you.”

What I like best are third through 12^th grade students, particularly middle schoolers and teens. I like them. They’re funny, you can joke with them, have an intelligent conversation with them, and while some are sometimes moody – as are adults, by the way – you can reason with them. All it requires is that you respect them and listen to what they have to say. 

I don’t have that nails-on-chalkboard high-pitched “baby voice” I hear many people use when talking at small children. I was always insulted by being spoken to that way when I was a kid, so I never developed that tone myself.

The funny thing is, many people recoil at the idea of dealing with teens. They freely admit that they don’t like teens, or else they make disparaging remarks about them that makes their attitude clear. Yet, if I dare to say I don’t like babies, they’re horrified.

I’m not saying do away with babies. There are plenty of people who love babies and can take care of them, so I shouldn’t have to. My mother was one of those people. But teens need proponents, too. That is where my talents lie.

“But who doesn’t like babies?” they ask.

 Well, I don’t.

           

 

Peeves

No matter where I go, people don’t seem to understand my way of thinking.

But then, I don’t understand theirs, either.

I’ve long dreaded going to all-female things, like baby showers, wedding showers, or even the Ladies’ room at a party because of the conversations they will inevitably lead to.

It seems that whenever more than two or three females are gathered together, conversations often tend to begin with, “Men are such…” and you can add your own derogatory word – babies, pigs, etc. It seems to be an all or nothing put-down of the male of the species.

I feel a need, in those situations, to come to the defense of the men, since they’re not there to defend themselves. I don’t like generalizations about any group of people.

“I’m sorry, but I refuse to accept that generalization from anyone who propagates the myth of PMS,” I have said in many of these situations.

I am met with glares and evil looks, even when the people I’m with have no idea what half of those words mean. They know a put-down when they hear one, and I am suddenly the enemy.

I once worked in an all-female department of occupational therapists. You would think that highly-educated people would have a modicum of propriety.

 But no. 

In addition to the “men are such” sentences, they seemed to have some primordial need to announce their periods and other no-one-needs-to-know-that subjects.

A woman entering the room with a package of salted peanuts and a candy bar  -- or simply a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup – feels compelled to say that she needs this because she is “PMSing.” 

Really! 

Couldn’t you just let us assume you’re feeling a bit peckish and leave it at that?

While it may be fine to tell your significant other, your mother or your best friend – in private – about your bodily functions, it is, in my humble opinion, highly inappropriate to discuss these things in public. Particularly at work. The exception would be if there was some sort of emergency related to it.

I know in my 43 years of being cursed with such a waste of my time, only twice did I ever discuss what was going on  with my body,  and both were emergency situations – and highly humiliating. I certainly don’t want to hear about someone else’s bodily functions.

One colleague in particular, used to relish the discussion. If I were in the room, I would cut her off with, “Do you come out of the bathroom and discuss whether you went  #1 or #2 as well?” (I only put it in such babyish terms because that’s the way my “highly educated” colleagues preferred to talk.)

She seemed offended. It never occurred to her that her discussion offended me.

For a while, we had a male OT in our department. During his year or so working with us, all of these inappropriate conversations ceased. It was a relief.

Unfortunately, once he left, they resumed. 

I also don’t need to know about your hot flashes, your incontinence or a litany of your medications. If your baby was not conceived the old-fashioned way, I don’t need to know. TMI, folks, TMI.

Of course, work isn't the only place people feel the need to discuss bodily functions.

There are baby showers. 

Is that supposed to be some rite of passage, to make the poor pregnant woman suffer? I can’t imagine that someone who’s eight or nine months pregnant is comfortable in the first place. I think she’s well aware of the labor to come.

But at every shower I’ve attended, there are multitudes of women anxious to share, in gory detail, the massive extent of their morning sickness, how many hours of labor they endured with each child, and how inept their husband was in the delivery room – or the myriad reasons they wouldn’t have wanted their husband there, if they were of an older generation.

Even decades after giving birth, these women can recount every gory detail. It makes me wonder how they could possibly love a child who caused them such unforgettable distress.

“Oh, you forget after they put that sweet baby in your arms,” they say. 

But they apparently didn’t.

Of course, now you’re saying to yourself, “You know, men say things about women, too.”

Yes, I know. Women are cows, nags and bitches – and worse. 

I find that just as reprehensible. I tend to take it personally.

Ok, yes, I can agree that at times I have been a bitch. 

It’s being called a nag that offends me.

I do not nag people. I’ll say something once. If the other person doesn’t respond, my assumption is that it’s their failure. They don’t respect me. They aren’t willing to be helpful, or in some instances, do their part.

Point taken.

And when the point is taken, don’t expect me to volunteer to be in any way helpful to that person ever again, or to be part of a group that they’re in. Trust and respect are earned.

Maybe it’s cold, but you can’t accuse me of nagging. Don’t lump me in with those women at the baby showers. I will only remind someone of something they were supposed to do if they ask me to.

If you don’t believe me, just ask my husband.

P.S. When my husband proof read the blog, he noted that the last sentence is true!

Searching for the Fountain of Youth

     I admit it: I’m vain

     Oh, I know I’m no beauty – more like the Beast. But in all honesty, I’m ordinary-looking. No one would pick me out of a crowd. On a good day, if the hair cooperates and the eyeliner on my lower lids goes on just right to make my grey eyes look a bit blue, I may even look nice.

     I’ve enjoyed looking younger than my actual age most of my life. But in the last five years, gravity has taken over. Wrinkles have taken command of my face. In the last year or two, I’ve noticed the left side of my face looks older than the right, the result of driver’s-side-window sun during the daily hour-long commute each way to and from work.
     The 25-year-old who lives inside this body now looks in the mirror in shock and thinks, “Oh, my Timelord! There’s an old woman in that mirror. Who the heck is she?”

     I am an eternal optimist. I really want to believe those too-good-to-be-true ads about skin creams that reverse the signs of aging giving one a youthful appearance. I’ve spent scads of money on the promise of regaining the face of my misspent youth, all to no avail.

     I’ve bought creams I didn’t believe in to help out friends or relatives who were trying to start up a business, more because I enjoy doing senseless acts of niceness, although I’d be better off supporting their Go-Fund-Me account for their next vacation. The result of most of these changes in my normal moisturizing regimen is a case of that scourge I never had as a teen: acne.

     I’m also a believer in that Judeo-Christian ethic called Karma. Perhaps if I help out friends and relatives with their skin creams, someday people will return the favor and buy my books.

     Not long ago, I again believed in a miracle face cream that promised youth in 30 days. It did look nice, and had no scent. The texture was rich and creamy. It felt nice going on. But it was, for all its pricey-ness, about as effective at rejuvenation as applying vegetable oil.

     Out of curiosity, I looked at the ingredients. What I didn’t realize when I bought it was that it supposedly contained snake venom. Wait, snake venom?

     I’m fairly certain no snakes were harmed in the production of this cream. More than likely, it was the result of some 30-something with a new chemistry kit. But snake venom sounds more daring than a string of unpronounceable polymers.
     I know what they were going for: the manufacturers wanted the public to believe that applying a topical toxin would have the same effect as an injection of botulinum toxin (aka Botox)

     It didn’t.

     But think about snakes for a moment. Even young snakes. Have you ever seen their skin? It’s positively scaly. I don’t even like snake skin shoes; I certainly don’t want a snake skin face.

     Into the trash went the promised snake oil, and I vowed I was through with promises of rejuvenation. My ordinary, Jennifer Aniston-endorsed, inexpensive moisturizer works just fine to keep my face from cracking.

     Enter the evil commercial from the competitor, another inexpensive lotion. “In just seven days you will see a decrease in fine lines and wrinkles,” they said – cue “In Just Seven Days” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show as you shake your head.

     Okay, it must do something. If I can see results in a week, it’s worth a try. Besides, it isn’t expensive snake oil.

     So, off to the local drug store’s beauty aisle I go. There it sits, just next to my usual cream. It has Retinol as one of it ingredients. That’s Vitamin A. That’s got to be good for you, yes? No.

     I gently washed my face each morning and studiously applied this lotion. It was sucked into my face – or the ozone – in seconds, leaving my skin feeling like it would tear if I cracked a smile.

     “Works well with any moisturizer,” the package said. 
     Okay, so it isn’t a moisturizer itself? I slathered on my usual moisturizer. Every. Single. Day.

     Each day, that 25-year-old peeked at the face. Day 1: nothing. Day 2: nothing. Day 3: some dry patches cropping up on my face. Each day thereafter, my face was redder and patchier. By day 7 it looked like it has looked in more naïve times, when I didn’t know about sun screens, after a day at the Jersey shore in strong sun. That was the only nod toward my youth that this cream provided.

     Fortunately, after a few days of simply using my regular skin cream, after I tossed out yet another failed promise of youth, my skin returned to its soft, although still just as wrinkled self.

     Once again I am determined that I will accept Mother Nature’s decree, and stop looking for the fountain of youth in a bottle. I can say that now, looking at a blank piece of paper, with no commercials or ads down the side of my Facebook page to lure me into another deception.

     I wonder if there’s a Fountain-of-Youth-Seeker’s Anonymous.