Jen Kirkman - I Can Barely Take Care of Myself

But if you have enough money to have a kid and you’re partnered up with the love of your life and you two want to have children—am I supposed to think that you’re doing something more altruistic than I am? It’s what you want. It’s fun for you. I know that parents skimp on sleep because their kids don’t sleep through the night and they need to be fed. I know that some parents work a forty-hour-a-week job in addition to parenting, which is already a more-than-full-time job. Again, no one is making them do it—so I have to assume that the struggle is commensurate with the reward.

My career as a writer, stand-up comedian, and actor is a more-than-full-time job too. Sure, with my jobs, I can take a day off here and there and nobody dies, unlike a parent should she decide, “Nah, I’m not gonna watch my toddler today. I’ll check in with him tomorrow if he’s around.” That doesn’t mean that I don’t sacrifice or that I’m not sleep deprived, but it’s worth it because it’s what I want to do to the exclusion of anything else. I do not love the thought of being a mother enough (read: at all) to have a child and do what I do for a living. I don’t want my spare time, which is an hour here and a weekend there, to be taken up with the making and raising of a person—and I feel like that’s the most unselfish thing I can do. I know enough to know what I can’t handle—which is a child tugging on my T-shirt and saying, “Feed me,” when I walk in my front door. Because usually I’m rushing to the bathroom to pee and you know what? A lot of times I don’t make it to the toilet in time and I pee a little bit in my pants. I have my own diapers to change.

I don’t go up to parents and say, “You know what you guys should do in addition to what you’re already doing? You should start a small charity that helps birds that can’t read. What do you mean you don’t want to do that? How come you don’t want to add that to your schedule? Isn’t that selfish?”

I WAS AT a Starbucks on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles, waiting in line to order an Americano. The woman in front of me had already ordered her coffee but was holding the barista hostage as she and her toddler daughter decided on what the little girl wanted to eat.

“Do you want… a cookie? How about a… blueberry muffin? Oooh, what about… some fruit!”

The toddler, overwhelmed with choices, screamed, “ Nooooooooo! ” to everything. The mom said to the barista, “I’m sorry. Do you have any of those miniscones in the back?” I had about two minutes left on my personal clock to order and get the coffee, otherwise I was going to have to turn around and leave. I didn’t want to be late for work. But I’m a pretty patient person for someone who is a complete spaz in all other areas of life and I know that bringing a kid with you into a store with shelves full of goodies turns the simple task of ordering a coffee into an ordeal worthy of rebuilding a community after a devastating hurricane. It involves a lot of bending over, picking things up, and putting them back in their place (reason no. 425 that I don’t want kids). The mom turned to me and said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “Oh, it’s okay.” And then I added, “Being a couple of minutes late for work is worth it for some coffee.” I don’t know why I said that. I was trying to be funny in that “Hey, we’re making jokes about work and coffee” way.

I immediately went into damage control and sputtered, “I didn’t mean—”

She cut me off with a look of vague disgust and said, “You don’t have kids, do you?” I shook my head no, like I was a toddler who knew I was in trouble and about to get scolded. With a little sneer she said, “It must be nice not having to be responsible for anyone.”

Admittedly, I had been silently judging this mom for asking her toddler what she wanted instead of just ordering something, not to mention for her fifteen-hundred-dollar stroller that was more expensive than the first car I drove when I got to L.A. Then I remembered that when I was that girl’s age, I sat in my dad’s lap and watched TV with him while he puffed on Marlboro Reds. He’d let me play with the smoke swirls. I grew up in the 1970s, before raising kids was thought of as a series of “teachable moments.” I’m well aware that I don’t know the first thing about how to parent a toddler, but it did seem kind of selfish of this mom to hold up the ever-increasing line.

Once she left Starbucks the guy behind me said, “Hey, we’re putting money into the economy and paying taxes that will pay for her kid’s public schooling someday.” Yes! Good comeback. I pay taxes! I do lots of selfless things for other people. In fact, just moments after the whole passive-aggressive joke incident, I tipped the barista one dollar on a two-dollar coffee. That is a 50 percent tip!

I don’t understand how busy parents even have two seconds to look over the fence and notice what I’m doing. I couldn’t care less what anyone else does about their monthly egg-drop. Have kids. Don’t have kids. Be one of those weird adults who like to sleep in a crib and drink from a bottle, pretending they are a kid—whatever gets you through life, as long as you’re not harming others, be my guest. It’s not like I’m raising babies on a farm and then slaughtering them for food. I’m just not making any babies to start with.

I like to think I’m using all my empathy for good—instead of wasting it on one kid my whole life, I perform selfless, random acts of kindness pretty often for lots of different people. I care about my fellow man and woman and I didn’t even birth them! I donate to charities that help children in third world countries get vitamins. I donate to charities that help the environment (your kids can thank me for their clean air once they learn how to talk). I send books to libraries in poor parts of the country. I help support my local food bank with money and canned food. I sign petitions and I call my senators and congresspeople to tell them to stop all of these silly wars that your kids are being forced to fight. I donate clothing to Goodwill every month (without getting a receipt for a tax write-off; you’re welcome, America). I actually must be one of the most selfless people on earth because I have no reason to be nice to anyone. I’m not on drugs and I have no maternal hormones pumping through my… veins? Brain waves? Arteries? (Where do hormones live?)

One afternoon at CVS, when the woman in front of me realized at the checkout that she’d forgotten her wallet, I purchased the tampons she was trying to buy. I gave my friend a Klonopin once because she wanted to make sure she got some sleep on a flight. No, I’m not a doctor and I guess it’s not “legal” to share prescription medication, but my empathy couldn’t be stopped. Who doesn’t relate to wanting to sleep on a flight?

I used to volunteer at a homeless shelter one Sunday every month. I ultimately had to stop being a Sunday lunch server but it wasn’t my fault. I used to talk to this old transient hippie about the Who every time I plopped mashed potatoes on his plate as he made his way down the food line. One day he handed me his phone number and said, “Call me. Or give me your number and I’ll call you.” First of all—he had a phone? I wanted him to have a phone. But now I wasn’t sure whether he was a homeless guy who was starting to make good or just some seventies burnout who came through the line for free hot food and to meet girls. In response to my shocked look he said, “Oh, come on, honey. Don’t be a tease.”

It would be great if I could use all of the spare time that I have helping others, but it’s not that easy. I’d love to be considered unselfish and Christlike, but as a woman it’s nearly impossible. Jesus had a penis, so he could feed a homeless person without the dude saying, “Hey, I know phones haven’t been invented yet but can I have your number?” Jesus could be nice to strangers without them getting the wrong idea and calling him a tease. And let me remind you once again that Jesus, aka the original Oprah, did not have children either.