When it comes to marriage and babies, I am not the typical 1950’s housewife type. Ever since I was young these two particular milestones have been very thoroughly scratched off of my ‘I want dis in mah life’-list. Not because I have any particular qualms against either of the concepts, I just never wanted them for myself. It doesn’t suit me. I’m not the type (and I have an epic list of anti-baby-reasons that exceeds even my list-of-guilty-pleasures) so I’ve never calculated it into any of my futures.
Growing up this whole institution of marriage and bearing babes into the world is such a grand part of our roads of life that we’re confronted with it at every turn and bend. There’s movies. Books. Talks at EVERY family gathering and friendships built solely on the needs for both. So regardless of any want or need for the matters – we get accustomed to thinking of ‘our’ versions of both.
See, I’ve always known I don’t want to get married. But I do KNOW what type of dress I would have (a mermaid cut with an abundance of lace overlay and a train that would make me a dancing hazard to anyone around). And I know the centerpieces to my reception (white peonies and pink orchids). I know I’d have a McDonalds themed buffet with a McChicken boxes tower and a never-ending flow of French fries and ‘frietsaus’. My first dance would be to Anastasias ‘Once Upon a December’.
Hell. If I’d be rich around that time – I’d have it sung to me by my acapella favorites Pentatonix while my now-husband would very professionally waltz me around the dancefloor in the most romantic of ways, there’d be a comical ‘Can’t Touch This‘ MC-hammer interlude with an over the top practiced dance – followed by that weird game where he has to pull the garter off a leg – only to find that I opted for a leather one attached to a hip-harness or something like that. STUCK.
The rest of the night would be followed by a mad bash on the dancefloor to all of the tunes of the 90’s and 00’s with additional input by the Justins, Arianas and Shawn Mendesses of the world. All of the cocktails would (obviously) flow freely and in all of the possible chemical blues, pinks and greens so everyone would lose any and all inhibitions. And somewhere in the middle of this there would totally be a cake-fight after cutting the 8-tier cake made by the Cake Boss (if his hand ever heals).
It would be epic.
And I’ve been much the same when it comes to babies. I couldn’t be bribed to ever have any BUT if I did end up with kids:
There’d be two. A boy and a girl just to have a set of ‘em. Mostly because I’ve always said jokingly that if I had two I’d call them ‘Anna’ and ‘Logan’ so the nerds would see ‘Annalogan’ and Analog. God. Too bad.
Although – I suppose my threats to ditch my worthless dads last name and switch to my moms side (Steyn) would afford me an even worse opportunity: Calling my son Frankie. You know. Frankie Steyn. I’m a monster (aka: main reason to NOT have kids to start with).
My man would have to sign a contract to change ALL of the diapers and my little girl would NOT ever be allowed to pick up ballet (with me being traumatised when my mom was kindly requested to find another hobby for her tomboy daughter) or horsebackriding (what a damn waste of money that is!). My little boy would have to suffer me cheering wildly at any and all of his sports matches but ONLY if he was adequate in them.
Anyways. The mere fact that I ‘know’ these things – regardless of my aversion to both of them is obviously insanity. But that’s the way of the world and its indoctrination. Just by mere exposure, expectations and influencing we are still molded into the perfect little pawns, sometimes unconsciously so. Because I’ll try and hold up my ‘not doing it’ for all eternity but I do know that if I SHOULD ever fall for the trap – I’d still be AS prepared as any babymonger-from-age-six. Even though I didn’t have the barbies to marry to any Kens. Even though I never kept a wedding scrapbook. Even though every fiber of my being screams no at the idea. I’m still prepared. How fucked up is that?!