So based on the assumption that we do, indeed, inherit not only some of the physical attributes of our parents, but also, some of the psychological characteristics too, it would be safe to assume that my children would be a complete and utter, shambolic mess of neuroses and intolerances on an immeasurable scale, passed down the PANK line and added to and magnified at each new generation.
Phone calls would come from exasperated teachers, telling me that Violet had once again, unceremoniously slapped a sándwich out of the hand of a shocked (loudly munching) child in the school canteen. They couldn’t enjoy the refreshing orange segments during half time of football/netball matches, but would whip out a wet wipe in the blink of an eye, before the juice had a second to slide down the chin of their classmates.
They would say at full volume in cafes and restaurants, “Mummy, why is that rude lady eating with her mouth wide open? I can see her muffin,” and then to the lady, with childish innocence, “Hey lady, I can see your muffin!” And the lady might get completely the wrong end of the stick and I would have to explain to her, that they weren’t in fact referring to her ‘vejayjay’, but that they were actually commenting on her terrible table manners. And then realising that this is not so much better, I would have to spend a substantial amount of my valuable triple mochalattemachiato time, apologising for that too. And my children. (And to the Universe for my terrible parenting skills.)
They might take the clean teeth issue a step further, and carry around emergency travel toothbrushes, offering them up helpfully to folk in the street with meal debris. Or point in horror at people smiling at them with brown pegs.
Add to these from Nana and Taid, my impatience for meandering in the street four abreast, stopping abruptly at the top/bottom of escalators/stairs to chat/check maps/light fags, inability to form an orderly queue. A need to check my bag four or maybe five hundred times before leaving the building, for my house keys, distaste for face-sucking in the gym, bus stops and on the metro, inability to sleep under a spider on the ceiling AND the foibles of the father; and you’ve got a big fat, juicy récipe for social skills disaster.
And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #30.