I thought I would write about children. I don’t have any. I often get that “awwww” look from my mom’s friends. I prefer not to think of myself as childless, but childless. Don’t get me wrong, I love children and for some strange reason they love me too. (Well, most of them. Read on.) And sometimes I pout when I think of leaving this world without a miniature version of myself to carry on my literary legacy.

I remember going out to eat with my friend Sue and her three-year-old daughter. It was good that this child was cute. I’ve been told that puppies, chicks, and bunnies are born cute so the parents don’t eat their young. Now I fully understand this.

Sue had to order a completely separate meal for this child (which was never eaten) because the child did not want to share with his mother. (Just my opinion, he would eat it or starve to death.) I sat in a fast food restaurant with this same little girl, waiting half an hour while she held a fat bite of hamburger in her mouth and she wouldn’t swallow it or spit it out because her dad wouldn’t let her have any more Coke. . From the look on her dad’s face, she expected her to squeeze that piece of meat out of her.

Then I met this great guy who adored me and was everything a woman could want. And I, being a woman, wanted it too. There were no games, no heartbreaking worries or wondering where he was because he was always with me. And every weekend, so were his children (at least two of them).

I had a lovely ten-year-old boy who preferred the Discovery Channel and was polite, studious, athletic, and handsome, and one of those boys you know will grow up to be a heartthrob. But he was over the top most of the time because his Daddy also had HER, a tiny twelve year old girl, who at first was so excited to have me as HER new friend, until she realized that I was really the new DAD’S FRIEND

So I got used to the Mc Nuggets very quickly and quickly lost the rights to my remote. As a single girl, I was used to steaks, Chinese takeout at 10pm if I wanted, fine wine, and repeats of my choice, but my weekend days were now peppered with Spaghetti-O’s. and slurpees and cartoons woke me up every Saturday morning. We ordered pizza and SHE wouldn’t eat it. She wanted something else, so Dad went to the store. (He’ll eat it or starve, I thought) I soon found myself counting down the hours until I could get back to work on Monday morning and escape the madness.

Yeah, I felt bad about all of this. What kind of mother was I? (She wasn’t, which was probably the point.)

Then came the day SHE saw me put my arm around her father. That little head whipped around faster than Linda Blair’s as she looked at me with that “Chucky come to life” look and breathed out the words “DON’T TOUCH MY DAD!”

I could have taken it (I was older), but I opted out. There are some battles that are never meant to be won. I let him retrieve all of his dad (along with his Spaghetti-O) while I waved goodbye.

Although this story had a happy ending. Three weeks after I left, Dad met a nice girl who happened to be my old college roommate (and I had nothing to do with her introduction), who happened to be an elementary school principal, and who turned out not to be. have children and want children.

And everyone is living happily ever after. SHE is probably still breathing fire and I am breathing a sigh of relief.

Even though I’m older now, I still somehow find myself in situations involving children. A few years ago I met a man one night and the chemistry was as searing as a cup of coffee from McDonald’s. It was one of those “Oh my God” moments for a woman when we know this is going to be a problem. And it was mutual.

But her hot fifty year old body cam with a package. Five Little Indians. Count them. Five. Beautiful children of varied ages, the youngest being three years old. So I considered it for about five minutes (one minute per child) and did the math that would give me about seventy years when the youngest reached legal age. At seventy, I think I’d rather be thinking of clean, nasty things to do with my cane.