I started playing house when I was four. There was me (the mommy), a daddy, a baby, and obviously an ethnic housekeeper and a purebred dog. I have always wanted four kids with names like Plum or Ophelia or Wyatt–also Alexx with two x’s–and a big family that wears only Free People and owns a collective 50 pair of Vans. I want to feed them all organic food and take mothering tips from the ultimate pro, Kourtney Kardashian. Hell, I wanna take our holiday cards in black and white film just to say, “Yeah, I went there.”
As I got older, my obsession grew. Every teenage girl can relate to this. We love boys with little nieces, nephews, and cousins on their laps. We die a little inside when guys wave to a nearby baby in the dairy aisle of Stop & Shop. And, although we rarely admit it, we sometimes truly enjoy giving up our Saturday nights to babysit a toddler that lets us pretend we’re younger, trendier MILFs. Yes, we will take Snapchats with these kids and yes, we will make you stare at them for a full seven seconds. But we won’t mupload them because that’s obviously a little weird.
At one point, I got too carried away with the idea of eventually having kids of my own. I went toiletry shopping with my mom and put Johnson and Johnson’s baby soap in the cart. I was willing to sacrifice proper cleanliness in exchange for smelling like a raw, bare assed baby fresh out of the bathtub. My mom yelled at me for being a literal psycho and I ran back to the soap section to settle for some boring blue Dial. Ugh.
My mom also thought that it would be a good idea to watch “The Pregnancy Pact” together to scare me out of basically making a cult group with my best friends, who were equally as prude as I was, and then breed babies together like we were running a professional black-market Chinatown turtle breeding business. My mom has nothing to worry about, as back when the movie came out I was still too embarrassed to hold hands with my boyfriend in public which is a totally different issue in and of itself.
Well, what do ya know, my mom and I watched the movie on a Friday night and two hours later I convinced myself that I was pregnant. Nothing had ever been more stress inducing to me in my life. I hyperventilated in the corner of my kitchen and could not get over the fact that my anxiety made it seem like for some reason the whole house smelled like peanuts and that I would totally just vomit and have a baby all over the floor with placenta, like, everywhere. Yeah, this didn’t quite happen in the movie, but if a movie was made about my life it totally would to me.
Why do we think that loving babies is so… well… attractive? Maybe if we see a guy cuddling a little alien lubricated in snot, saliva, and vomit, we’ll think that when we’re at our worst (a.k.a. 4 a.m. after a bad night at that grimy college-town bar, K-Stew limping like a dog with a cone on its head at the Oscars, etc.) he’ll be there for us too. I guess knowing that guys like babies is a security blanket–no pun intended.
The thought of pregnancy brings about a large range of emotions. I’m genuinely just really curious if the size of my stomach will ever exceed that of Kim Kardashian’s ass. A girl can dream.