Where His Seed Can Find No Purchase

So like everyone else apparently, my Facebook page is now populated by people I knew in high school. Yes, good old JFK (the alma mater, by the way, of Amy Fisher: Long Island Lolita - and no I didn't know her or anyone in a call girl ring or wasn't overly fascinated not by sex or drugs but by the scores on our SAT exam) has once again emerged from the deepest cells of my memory to haunt me once again. It's like an eternal reunion over there, people. Frankly, it puzzles me. I mean except for a couple of old friends that it's been nice to catch up with, it's not like we've been breathlessly looking for each other over the years - why so much enthusiasm?

But I digress.

One of the byproducts of this fascinating exercise is finding out how many kids my old classmates have popped out. Average count: Three. Average first question when they catch me online: How many do I have?

Answer: Well, none. No kids. A dog. A Hapa Boy. But no kids.

This is usually greeted by stunned pity. OMG! How did that happen?

It happened because I didn't want it to happen, you see. I know, it's hard to understand when children are at the center of many of my friend's lives. It's difficult to explain in an age where motherhood has pretty much reached Victorian levels of obsession how I never, ever wanted to be one. Let's say that I never wheeled a doll around in a baby carriage. Let's say that I remember insisting on having a divorced Barbie when I played with my friends - and this was an era where divorce was far more unusual. Let's say I didn't particularly like being a child. It's not that I was abused in any way - unless you want to count being raised on Long Island as abuse, and I agree it's borderline - I just disliked the powerlessness of it. I like being an adult, and I like living an adult life. I'm delighted to note that I will never, ever be forced to visit LegoLand, wipe chocolate off every surface, or sit through parent-teacher conferences. Also, babies scare me. I prefer puppies. The upshot is that I never saw myself as a mother. Mind you, I like everyone else's kids very much. I am appropriately enamored with my awesome nephew, Little B, and I am deeply curious and loving towards my friends offspring. It just wasn't an experience that I wanted.

So it's kind of stunning the sort of thing people feel comfortable asking me. Could I not conceive? (Didn't try) Is it because I'm just a selfish little so and so who didn't want to be tied down? (Trust me, Dear Readers, dogs tie you down plenty), or my favorite - Perhaps, poor me, I didn't meet the right man at the right time? No. In fact, during my salad days, the man nibbling at my tender leaves would have loved to be a Daddy. It's always been my call, and happily I feel no biblical obligation to be fruitful (although I eat at least three apples a day) and multiply (I can't do fractions either.)

Now I'm not denying that raising children might be a remarkable roller-coaster ride of thrills and spills (definitely spills from my observation). But here's the thing. On our recent trip to Las Vegas, Hapa Boy pointed out the roller coaster on top of one of the casinos that wrapped around the fiftieth floor outside the building.

You know what? I didn't want to get on that one either.