Marla Jo Fisher: Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I admit it. I really don't like babies

Jan. 13—So I was recently listening to a humorous story about the act of giving birth. Which always seem to involve a lot of pain and cursing toward any man unfortunate enough to be in the room. At least according to books I've read and many, many TV sitcoms.

Now, I don't know anything about having babies, because both of my kids came pre-assembled. By the time they moved in with me, they were weaned, toilet trained and talking in complete sentences. Just the way I like it.

I never had any interest in babies, so when I decided to adopt kids as a single mom, I specifically aimed for older ones. I always remembered when co-workers would bring their new babies into the office, as people always seem to insist on doing, and all the women would crowd around and gush. "Oh, he's so cute. Look at those dimples. Blah blah blah."

Invariably, the infant and its proud parent would wend its way to my side of the newsroom, and would somehow be shoved into my arms. But I simply never had that baby lust that other women seem to own.

You know, when they have to touch the baby and smell the baby and make sickening noises to the baby and rock the baby. My theory is that it's hormonal and I must have been out for lunch when they arrived.

In contrast, I would hold the small, squirming creature for the minimum amount of time required to avoid seeming rude. If I got lucky, she'd start crying and then I'd have an excuse to hand her back.

It was unfair, but men were seldom required to hold the baby, or, in the rare occasions when they were, it was considered acceptable for them to make one brief complimentary comment and then hand it back. In those moments, I wanted to be the men.

Even my own nieces and nephews didn't interest me much when they were little, though they're fun to have around now, especially when they go get me another beer.

I like children when they are old enough to communicate with more than a vociferous scream. Cheetah Boy and Curly Girl were aged 5 and 3 when they moved in with me as my foster children, and life has been a barrel of laughs ever since. OK, not every minute. But really. No, not really. But sometimes.

Shortly after they moved into my old shingle bungalow in the bad neighborhood, I took Curly Girl to this exercise run by the county they called an "Adoption assessment" — only one of an endless series of bureaucratic hoops I had to jump through before they gave me her papers and her collar.

In this assessment, a pair of child psychologists gave her a bunch of tests to determine how smart and emotionally healthy she was, for reasons that still remain unclear. I mean, I'd already signed on the dotted line and purchased the extended warranty. I wasn't giving her back.

Anyway, I also had to fill out a blue-colored questionnaire about my new soon-to-be daughter, including asking me, "How many words does she know."

This one stumped me for awhile, and I sat with the little golf pencil in my hand until finally I just answered, "All of them." Even though she was only 3, my girl was already as much a chatterbox as I am, and has remained ever since.

Anyway, she passed her assessment and they told me, "She's very smart," which of course I already knew. It reminded me of those government-funded studies to explore the burning question of whether animals have feelings. You just have to shake your head and think, "I'm so glad my taxes paid for that."

For reasons that also remain unclear, they never ordered an adoption assessment for Cheetah Boy. I don't want to ponder that too deeply. But it also would have determined that he is very smart, and I was already madly in love with both of them. Luckily, I didn't manage to accidentally kill either of them before the adoption was final, so now they're mine all mine forever, as I often point out to them when they complain about me.

They still live with me now that they're age 23 and 21, and we generally all get along, though I continue to gaze in wonderment at the bathroom floor, and ask myself how many wet towels can congregate there before the health department comes in and shuts it down.

I know some of you reading this have already become grandparents and I realize that, when that day comes, I will have to hold the baby for longer than 10 seconds. But something odd has happened to me. I've actually started liking babies more over the last few years. Maybe having kids sparked my dormant maternal instincts. Nowadays, I sometimes actually watch those diaper commercials with the adorable wee ones crawling across the floor to demonstrate they're not going to leak.

I don't want to become a grandmother any time soon, thank you very much, but maybe when I do, I'll like it. As many of you have pointed out to me, grandchildren are God's way of rewarding you for not strangling your teenagers.

___

(c)2021 The Orange County Register (Santa Ana, Calif.)

Visit The Orange County Register (Santa Ana, Calif.) at www.ocregister.com

Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.