My Point...And I Do Have One

now. I’ll wait a year. I want one now. I’ll wait a year. Well, you get the idea.
    I think that part of my dilemma is that even though I want to have a baby, I don’t want to
have
the baby. I can’t imagine
having
the baby. Giving birth is just so much pain. I know it’s a beautiful child you end up with. I’m aware of that. But if I want a new washer and dryer, I wouldn’t necessarily want to
have
a new washer and dryer, if you know what I mean (and if you don’t, I really don’t care to explain it in any more detail).
    I don’t think I could go through that pain (having the
child
—let’s just forget the washer and dryer now, okay?). A lot of women I know believe in natural childbirth. No matter how much discomfort they’re in, they refuse to take drugs. Mercy, mercy me! Just thinking about thatpain makes me want to take drugs (sometimes I even drive down to the hospital and demand an epidural).
    I don’t need a baby growing inside of me for nine months, either. For one thing, there’s morning sickness. If I’m going to feel nauseous and achy when I wake up, I want to achieve that state the old-fashioned way: getting good and drunk the night before. I know that a woman glows when she’s pregnant, and that sounds neat. But, I can get a pretty good glow by enjoying a steam bath followed by some assorted skin creams. The thing that I don’t understand most is when a pregnant woman joyfully talks about feeling her baby kick. To me, getting kicked isn’t as big a thrill as others make it out to be. I’ve never liked getting kicked from the outside, why should I feel any different about an inside kick?
    But I would like to have a child. So, one day I’d like to adopt a baby who needs a loving home and be a mother who will adore him or her and teach it important things. I think I’d make a great mother. I’m great with kids. I know this because I’m the godmother to a precious little two- or five-year-old boy or girl (I’m not sure of the specifics). I probably would be overprotective of my child, though. She (if it’s a girl) or he (if it’s not a girl) would always have to wear a helmet (even if it’s just to eat cereal; those spoons can be mighty dangerous!); would be on one of those protective leashes until, at least, senior year of high school; and would, in general, be raised like people raise veal—confined to a crate by itself somewhere.
    I think my best quality as a mother would be the ability to communicate complex ideas simply, I think all parents dread the old “How are babies made” question. I know my parents had a problem explaining this to me.
    “Mommy, Daddy—how are babies made?”
    “Well, Ellen honey, there’s an egg.”
    “Like a chicken egg?”
    “No, smaller.”
    “Like a robin’s egg?”
    “No, much smaller—it’s very small. And Daddy gives Mommy … Well, there’s a Papa Bear and a Mama Bear and the Mama Bear has the baby in her tummy—”
    “So I grew in a bear’s stomach?”
    “No, but if you were a bear you would’ve.”
    “But I’m not a bear?”
    “No, you’re a little girl.”
    “So, where did I grow?”
    “In Mommy’s tummy.”
    “How did I get there?”
    “Daddy gave her special sauce.”
    “Like McDonald’s?”
    “Who knows? Maybe.”
    “How did he give it to her? In a hamburger?”
    “Okay. Yes.”
    “I like hamburgers. Good night.”
    “Good night, sleep tight.”
    I know that I could do a much better job answering that question than my parents. Other people sense this, too. In fact, hardly a day goes by when somebody doesn’t ask me, “Ellen, how can I explain sex to my children?” Unfortunately, it’s always the same person who is asking me that question. He’s the man who runs the cheese shop I go to—Cheeses ’N’ Things it’s called (I’ve always been afraid to ask what the ’N’ Things are). Anyway, this man’s only child works in the store with him, is in his mid-twenties, and from the way he handles a sharp cheddar, can probably explain more about sex to his father than vice versa.
    Whatever the case, I’m sure there are many other reasonably sane people who are troubled by this problem. And the more children there are (and I’m not sure wherethese children are coming from), the more explaining about sex there is to be done.
    By sex I mean, of course … sex. You know what I’m saying. There are many different types of sex, but for the purpose of this explanation I’m just talking