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Yesterday, my maternal aunt called to invite us to lunch at our favorite barbecue joint, so today, we met at the restaurant. My cousin, her husband, and their two children came along, as did her father.
Howler monkeys, the lot of them; I was reared by a family of howler monkeys. I had scarcely got to the table before three people at once began peppering me with questions that I never got to answer because before I could start, someone else would ask another question or interject a snatch of gossip or unsolicited commentary on my appearance. My uncle, bless his soul, tried to ask how I was, but my aunt drowned him out by gabbling loudly that it was so good to see me and how was Vegas, and then my cousin was tugging on my arm, wanting to talk about my hair, and my poor uncle is just sitting there, waiting for me to answer. Then the waitress approaches, and the kids start to scream and clamor for soda, and he never gets an answer. I don't think he got a full answer to any of his questions, but that's okay, because I never got to give a full answer, either.
Goddammit, family, if you're not interested in the answer and can't be assed to fake it, then don't ask the question. Don't ask me about my recent trip and then change the subject before I've made it a full sentence. Just admit you couldn't give a fuck and discuss what you want to discuss. I'd rather listen to an interesting conversation than feel like a patronized idiot because you're only asking as a matter of form. I feel irrelevant enough without my family adding to the impression.
And the children, oh, the children. They were two and four, and so they couldn't entirely help it, but if I had to deal with that constant, hectic, battle-zone energy level every day, I would need handfuls of Xanax to function. The screaming and cawing and growling and constant plays for attention; the need for constant vigilance as they lick the table or the high chair or try to pour an entire cup of bleu cheese dressing onto a plate or stuff a rubber frog into their mouths. No wonder my cousin's eyes were ringed with dark circles. Parenthood must be rewarding on some super-sekrit level to which no one is admitted until they become parents, else no one would willingly and happily procreate more than once, but I'm glad I never chose that path. And yes, Internet assholes and beauty-obsessed media, I know it's because no one would find me attractive, so you can spare your typing fingers. Roomie and I discussed it without much enthusiasm years ago, but never really wanted them, and even when I was with He Whose Wang I Hope Falls Off, I never gave it serious thought because I knew I lacked the patience, stamina, and superhuman selflessness to be a good parent. That isn't to say that I don't often wonder what might have been, but after watching my formerly vivacious cousin spend her time and energy convincing the younger child not to lick the table, I'm sure my decision was the right one.
Howler monkeys, the lot of them; I was reared by a family of howler monkeys. I had scarcely got to the table before three people at once began peppering me with questions that I never got to answer because before I could start, someone else would ask another question or interject a snatch of gossip or unsolicited commentary on my appearance. My uncle, bless his soul, tried to ask how I was, but my aunt drowned him out by gabbling loudly that it was so good to see me and how was Vegas, and then my cousin was tugging on my arm, wanting to talk about my hair, and my poor uncle is just sitting there, waiting for me to answer. Then the waitress approaches, and the kids start to scream and clamor for soda, and he never gets an answer. I don't think he got a full answer to any of his questions, but that's okay, because I never got to give a full answer, either.
Goddammit, family, if you're not interested in the answer and can't be assed to fake it, then don't ask the question. Don't ask me about my recent trip and then change the subject before I've made it a full sentence. Just admit you couldn't give a fuck and discuss what you want to discuss. I'd rather listen to an interesting conversation than feel like a patronized idiot because you're only asking as a matter of form. I feel irrelevant enough without my family adding to the impression.
And the children, oh, the children. They were two and four, and so they couldn't entirely help it, but if I had to deal with that constant, hectic, battle-zone energy level every day, I would need handfuls of Xanax to function. The screaming and cawing and growling and constant plays for attention; the need for constant vigilance as they lick the table or the high chair or try to pour an entire cup of bleu cheese dressing onto a plate or stuff a rubber frog into their mouths. No wonder my cousin's eyes were ringed with dark circles. Parenthood must be rewarding on some super-sekrit level to which no one is admitted until they become parents, else no one would willingly and happily procreate more than once, but I'm glad I never chose that path. And yes, Internet assholes and beauty-obsessed media, I know it's because no one would find me attractive, so you can spare your typing fingers. Roomie and I discussed it without much enthusiasm years ago, but never really wanted them, and even when I was with He Whose Wang I Hope Falls Off, I never gave it serious thought because I knew I lacked the patience, stamina, and superhuman selflessness to be a good parent. That isn't to say that I don't often wonder what might have been, but after watching my formerly vivacious cousin spend her time and energy convincing the younger child not to lick the table, I'm sure my decision was the right one.
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