There’s strong force, and then there’s the force by which cheap stickers adhere to inappropriate surfaces, like the inner edge of the toilet seat in the guest bathroom. Or the granite island and linoleum floor of our rental unit. I’m sitting here with a bottle of Goo Gone and a butter knife slowly peeling away layers of cartoon puppies in medieval uniform.
As I’m doing this, I’m having an existential crisis as to whether it’s moral to bring a third child into the world. Why I am even thinking this is because the seed of doubt was planted, several times by the discourse of my peers. My attendings, given the amount of free time they have during a resident clinic, once whispered to each other in the hall about their choice against having more for this reason. As I was scrolling IG it suggested to me a piece from the New Yorker that questions exactly this, the wisdom of bringing children into an increasingly burning, dystopian world.
While I’m slowly chipping away at tenths of a millimeter of a figure of “Marshall” in knights armor, in front of me is a version of my cats water fountain that she rejected. All this had started when I wanted to get her a fountain that was slightly less hideous than her current go-to, and dishwasher safe. Both alternatives I bought were rejected. After accepting my failure, I re-purchased the ugly fountain she would actually drink from, and put the “replacement” up on the shelf where I was hoping I could find a way to rid of it that wouldn’t give me guilt. A beautiful example would have been to pawn it off to a friend that got a new cat or whatever. Nobody wanted my crap.
Within the storage cabinet of the center island (the very one I’m scraping sticker bits off of) is the first version, a ceramic iteration vaguely shaped like a pagoda. We’re not parting with that one yet because it was too expensive and I have this vision of using it as a planter which I know I never will. You met the second up on the shelf.
THREE separate purchases, TWO of which both turned out to be a complete waste. Blame my cat, or blame me for having a cat more accurately.
Which brings me back to my current situation: My husband and I both want three kids. We’ve always felt that. Yet since having kid number two, I feel societal pressure to question my motive for wanting three kids.
I searched Reddit for the topic of kids and climate change, which, in retrospect was a horrible choice if I were looking for something to assuage my fears and tell me what I wanted to hear: it’s ok. Don’t worry about it, just live your life and be happy.
Allow me to summarize it for you- it’s an infinite doomscroll about how much you and everyone you love is / are completely forked. Anyone who brings kids into this flaming garbage hole is not only delusional about there even being a future for their child, but is hastening the end for the rest of us.
…
Using my fingers I peel off the Paw Patrol stickers from the kitchen island and it looks like she was never there. …Did they really need to come off today? I ask myself.
Much later that evening, I’m here adding these last thoughts to this entry while my son curls into me. When his chest is against mine I can feel him in a way that’s vaguely reminiscent of how I felt him before he was born. What I wouldn’t give to feel that just one more time.
Med-Derm, MD 