There are days when I think infertility is a gift.
Before you roll your eyes and click away, let me explain. I’m not trying to sell you a gratitude journal app or convince you that God has a plan for your life or that you should go vegan or start taking homeopathic anti-stress drops made primarily of brandy, or anything like that. I’m just saying that in a world where Donald Trump seems poised to win the Republican nomination, and perhaps the presidency, maybe it would be best to get a dog. The dog would love me and Mr. Gentlemanface, and when President Trump blew us all to kingdom come, I’d feel bad, but not, you know, baby-bad.
I remember my mom saying that when she and my dad were trying to get pregnant, she had a few bad moments in which she looked at the state of the Cold War and the environment and the world in general and thought, “Maybe I don’t want a kid after all.” Then she proceeded to power through a million horrifying ’70s-era fertility procedures, which I assume consisted of being asking to remove her pantsuit and then having cigarette smoke blown up her hooey while Cream played in the background. It was pretty gnarly, and not in a fun, surfer way, I know from her accounts.
All of this is besides the point, because even if Trump succeeds in turning real life into the movie Idiocracy, I still want a kid. It’s just that if Trump wins, I’m going to have to go nine shades of Sarah Connor and teach the baby to lead the Resistance.
(Photo via JAM Project at Flickr)