Babies: the new SF accessory?

It took me a little over 2 months to commit to a plant. I am - quite staunchly - against motherhood of any kind. Yesterday, it happened. I committed to an 8-inch tall orchid, and I named it Lily.

So, do I think about pregnancy? Yes. How can I not think of pregnancy when everyone in San Francisco is sporting their new favorite accessory: babies. Do I want a little me that I can put in tutus and pass my neuroses and my bad back onto? Umm... err... tempting... but, no.

I think of my uterus and my vagina as very political entities. But, it's not some desire to stave off over-population that motivates my anti-baby stance. My vagina is very scared of the whole idea, like when I see a baby my ovaries go "aww.. 18 years to life wouldn't be that bad, Virg" but my pussy, she cringes. I mean, when I see a baby my life flashes before my eyes. No more pedicures, no more promiscuous sex, no more sleeping in, no more traveling, no more thinking of me, me, me. All the things I love in life would be gone, and I'd have a broken va-j-j to boot + 1 little person who would spend a quarter of their life hating me and another quarter in therapy learning how to forgive me for passing on the fat gene.

And then there comes the issue of the penis that did this, and the man it's attached to. I think about the day after all of it's over and I've got a tear from my ass to my cooch, how can I trust the fool who let this happen to me? How can I look him in the eye and truthfully say, "No, I don't blame you for putting my vagina on the chopping board of life. I don't hate you a even little for standing by while my hole was transformed into a hallway."

I don't think I'd make a bad mother. I just don't want to be a mother. That's all. When I see the mommy meetings at the Dolores Park Cafe, the only thing I'm envious of is that they own a person who sucks on their tits all day.