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Many people question my frequent and loud declarations to forgo marriage and children.

“It may be fun now,” Friends say (Aside: it is!), “But what will you do when you are forty and we are all married and have kids.”

“Well…” I think for a moment, inhale, and generally act like my answer is unprepared. “I will be sitting on a yacht in the Mediterranean or sitting on Zac Efron’s lap, and you will be sitting in your dining room helping with grade four homework.”

Frankly, I just can’t see what the issue is or where the decision lies.

 

And, if all else fails, I have a dog. And, maybe one day, I will get a potted plant.

 

I often wonder what life would be like if I were to actually have a kid-thing.

My Blackberry would ring, thus interrupting the still-present yachting or Zaccing, and I would reluctantly answer.

“Hello? Is that Sall? We have little [insert name here] with us here at the Jimmy Choo store…Yes, It has been two months…Yes, we also thought you would notice…Bubble wrap her and send her where?”

 

I just don’t think I am built for motherhood. Enjoying-A-Flat-Stomach aside, I simply think that I am far too unapologetically selfish and increasingly flighty to ever have anything that required my constant attention in my possession.

 

Hence why I remain reluctant to get a potted plant.

 

I have had a dog since I was ten-years-old.

“Don’t pat yourself on the back,” AM says to me almost daily while I pat the dog on the couch. “I am the one who actually cares for Him. I feed him, I bathe him.”

“While you may think of those things as an indulgence,” I think for a moment, inhale, and generally act like my answer is unprepared, “Some people believe them to be a necessity. I am the one who cuddles Him, snuggles with Him and lets him be Little Spoon when we go to sleep.”

But she makes a valid point (she is a mother, after all). I do nothing to ensure the dogs general survival. I just make sure he is fluffy. I actually, physically, can’t feed him. I tried one day back in ’98 but I threw up into the sink at the sight of the dog food.

 

I sometimes believe that Toby, the aforementioned dog/kid-thing-in-training, exists with an ulterior motive. Either to see if my threat to sell him to a Chinese restaurant is real (Aside: it is!) or to test my patience and educate me on what the perils of parenthood would be.

“It is worse than having a baby,” AM laughed when I walked out of my bedroom drinking Coke Zero for energy, with my shirt on backwards and sunglasses covering my tired and puffy eyes.

“At least you can easily sell a baby on eBay,” I snapped.

“Why are you so exhausted? You had twelve hours sleep…”

 

In lieu of having a human bed companion [who is welcome to stay/be big spoon], Toby shares my bed. And has done since I was ten-years-old. Sometimes he sleeps on the end of the bed, but more frequently he rests himself on my arm/stomach/head.

One particular night in question, Toby decided that sleeping just wasn’t on his agenda.

“Suit yourself,” I shrugged, rolled over and treated him how I would generally treat a baby-thing: with indifference.

He then proceeded to go about his After Dark business. I am not sure what that must entail. The Pseduo-Mother never wonders. He returned when He felt like having a nap. He would nudge my hand to get my attention, I would stir, and He would look adorable. The third time it was cute. The fifth time I decided I should have listened to whoever told me to get a potted plant first. The seventh time I lost it.

“I have had human boys in this room who are less annoying than you Toby!” I yelled. At four o’clock in the morning.

The fluffy, innocent and one-foot tall poodle looked back at me with an expression that read, “Who the Hell are you kidding? I’ve met Them all. Now pick me the fuck up and put me on the God damn bed. I want to nap!”

 

Later I heard him leave again (I know the exit-in-the-night sound well) and I swore to never, ever have a baby-thing.
“I would prefer to go back to school and do grade four again myself,” I declared. I fell back to sleep and dreamt of the Mediterranean and sitting on Zac Efron’s knee. Or similar.

Until I was woken by a small-head-to-the-hand movement.

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!”

I picked up the poodle and [gently] threw him on to my bed.
“What the fuck, Toby?” He was wet. Dripping wet. “Umm…Where the Hell have you been?”

 

And This…THIS…is why I think people recommend a human to get a dog before procreating. Not because they need a test of responsibility. It is for no other reason than to alert you to the fact that just when you are about to throw a living, breathing piece of adorableness out the window, It will go and do something so random that it will make you stop, think and realize, “That is what life is all about.”

 

I scooped up Toby, tied him to the bed, snuggled him and fell asleep. 

And then he farted.  

I moved myself to the dining room to sleep.