Jen Kirkman - I Can Barely Take Care of Myself

Sometimes Matt and I would sit around the living room on a Saturday night and do our version of telling ghost stories around the campfire. We’d try to imagine what life would be like if we got “the urge.”

Well, since we have no family here in California—we could move back to Massachusetts and give up our show business pursuits. Or your mom could move here. Or you could work two jobs while I’m home breast-feeding. Or we could move to a one-room apartment so you wouldn’t have to have two jobs and you could stay home and watch me breast-feed.

I admit, when I would see Matt’s baby pictures, I’d get some kind of an urge. Those cute dimples. His black curls loose on his head—his head that’s a little too big for his baby body. I’d say, “Aw, I long for a Baby Matt.” But then I’d head in for snuggles with Adult Matt and realize that dimple is still there; I can run my hand through those curls. I don’t want to raise a little Baby Matt. I want to snuggle inappropriately with Adult Matt.

And sure, at times I got offended that Matt didn’t seem to have the urge for a Baby Jen running around. How could he not want to make a replica of that girl in the picture who was trying to look so serious and Swan Lake –y in her ballet tutu on the front lawn circa 1979? (I was rocking this look long before Natalie Portman made every heterosexual guy in America lust after boobless, boney, and potentially bisexual ballerinas.) Matt reminded me that he’d be a little overwhelmed with his wife and daughter in the house, both vying for his attention—after they’d had a glass of wine—because they wanted him to watch them dance and sing along with the movie Cabaret.

When I started to think about writing a proposal for this book, I e-mailed Matt to get a quote—in his own words—about his non-paternal instinct. He wrote back, “Jen, please don’t e-mail me while you’re driving.”

I think that’s a damn good caretaker instinct, and what girl wouldn’t be lucky to have that instinct all to herself?

P.S. I NEVER saw Thomas again except one time on a lunch break at my old temp job. He was leisurely strolling on the other side of the street and looked like he had gained twenty pounds—all of it in his stomach. Maybe he was finally going to have that baby after all.

Throughout my life people have told me that I would “change my mind.” I became a vegetarian when I was thirteen and I remember my friend Tracy’s mother saying to me at their July Fourth barbecue, “Oh, Jen. This is just a little phase. You’ll change your mind.” She really thought I’d change my mind, like, that day. She put aside a cheeseburger on a paper plate for me that got rock-hard and cold into the night because I did not change my mind. Twenty-five years later, I’m still a vegetarian. (Okay, I eat fish sometimes. So I guess I’m a pescatarian—or a poseur, or just someone who is committed to not eating anything with legs.)

When I was thirteen my mother told me that I would not always like the music of Morrissey and that someday I’d realize that he “sounds like a British Kermit the Frog.” I have seen Morrissey in concert more times in the last three years than I’ve seen my family on holidays. Not only did I not change my mind about Morrissey, my mom changed her mind. She got free tickets to see him perform at Foxwoods Casino and she took a break from playing a slot machine to go check him out. I got a voice mail the next day. “Jennifah, it’s Mom. I was front row at Morrissey and wow, is he a crooner or what?” Meanwhile, I have never sat front row at a Morrissey concert.

I’m not saying that I’ve never been wrong about what I want. I’m capable of changing my mind in certain situations and admitting that my judgment was a little off. Like the time in sixth grade when I declared that I was always going to love Ross Damon no matter what and I would never ever change my mind. Then my friend Shannon told me, “Ross Damon put tennis balls in his shorts in gym class today and kept asking everyone to ‘touch his balls.’ ” I changed my mind about Ross immediately. I also once stated that Madonna’s song “Borderline” would be my favorite song forever and ever. In my defense, I had no idea that “Vogue” was waiting for me six years down the line.

I said to my dad when I was in high school, “Dad, I don’t care about money, only happiness.” I’ll admit that I’ve changed my mind on that one. I would like both money and happiness and I’m not entirely convinced that money doesn’t buy happiness. I’ve traveled first class on someone else’s dime to Australia, and if you think lying down in a fully reclining seat that turns into a bed while sipping free champagne for eleven hours doesn’t solve all of your earthly problems—you’re right. But it sure does numb you to the pain of those earthly problems for a little while.

But one thing I haven’t changed my mind about is the fact that I am not going to have children. My parents support this decision, yet my choice to be childfree gets questioned by strangers, like they’re the CIA and I’m a suspect who isn’t giving them the whole story. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday one of these baby-happy people decides that in order to get a satisfactory answer, I’ll need to be water-boarded on a Slip’N Slide.

MATT AND I were at some mutual friends’ wedding in Los Angeles. We were seated with two other couples with whom we were friendly, but we weren’t close. Let me put it this way—we were all Facebook friends but we didn’t have each other’s phone numbers. Somewhere between the breadbasket running out and the salad course being served, one of the other women, let’s call her Sally, said to me, “So, are you and Matt having children?” Sally didn’t know she was jumping the gun. Matt and I weren’t even married yet at this point, just newly engaged. The first order of small talk in this situation should be, “So, are you and Matt having a DJ or a band at the wedding?” and not, “So, do you two plan to bring a human life onto planet earth?”

“Oh, we just got engaged,” said Matt.

Sally prodded, “Right, but are you two going to have kids?”

You know what? I’m going to refer to her as Lucy, because Sally was a sweet character from Peanuts and Lucy was the know-it-all character from Peanuts who had the gall to open up a psychiatrist booth without a license, charging five cents to listen to people’s problems.

Matt said, “No.” I confirmed our decision, adding, “We don’t want kids.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose and cocked her head to one side. Her voice got high-pitched, like she was really trying to emphasize that she was asking a serious question. “How old are you?” “Thirty-four,” I answered. Lucy looked at me and with a wave of her hand cleared the air of the words I’d just spoken. She said, “You don’t want kids now but you’re young. You’ll change your mind.”

I do not like being called “young” by someone who is only a couple of years older than I am, because what that really means is “You’re dumb.” I’m okay with it when elderly people call me “young.” It reminds me that my dread at turning forty is a nonissue. Forty is still a decade away from menopause. It’s like the teen years of middle age! I especially like when elderly people call less elderly people “kids.” It implies, “Hey, you might be eligible for social security and discounted movie tickets, but don’t think that you’ve earned the badge of courage that is known as being ‘old’ until you have knee replacement surgery and permanently cold hands. Until your limbs start breaking from simply trying to open a cabinet and your grandchildren are kind of afraid of you because you look like the undead—you’re still a kid. Now, who are you and where am I?”