When I was 12 or 13 years old, I used to babysit. It wasn‘t my thing. The kids smelled like playground, their hands were grubby, they wanted me to “play”…I wasn’t into it. I used to change the clocks and announce “Time for bed!” an hour or so earlier than I was supposed to. Sorry, kids. Maybe your next babysitter won‘t suck as much. I just wanted them to go to sleep so I could talk on the phone and eat snacks from their kitchen pantry.
I always left feeling like I didn’t want kids. I found them to be annoying and gross, but every time I voiced these concerns to my mom, she always said the same thing: “It’s different when they’re yours.”
I believed my mom because she is my mom.
I believed her until one of my friends tripped me up many, many years later. Keep reading this post »