I Can Barely Take Care of Myself by Jen Kirkman (best interesting books to read TXT) 📕

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CONTENTS

Introduction

1. Welcome Back, Kirkman

2. Misadventures in Babysitting

3. Toddlers Without Borders

4. Married . . . Without Children

5. “You’ll Change Your Mind”

6. Jesus Never Changed Diapers

7. I Don’t Have the Mom Jeans Gene

8. Faking It for George Clooney

9. “But You’d Be Such a Good Mom!”

10. I’m Gonna Die Alone (and I Feel Fine)

11. It’s None of Your Business, but Since You Asked . . .

12. Becoming Miriam

Acknowledgments

About Jen Kirkman

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY PARENTS.

I love you both and thank you for never getting in the way of my dreams. To my dad, for always saying that women are funny and anyone who doesn’t agree can go pound sand. To my mom, who reminded me, “Just think, if we didn’t decide to have kids, you wouldn’t be here living a fun life and writing this book.” Thank you both for having me. Ew, I don’t want to think about how I was made.

P.S. Also, thank you for being so overprotective that I never got pregnant as a teenager.

THIS BOOK IS NOT DEDICATED TO . . .

one of my schoolteachers. When I told you I wanted to be a writer someday, you patted my head and told me to sit down. When I wrote an original short story about a zombie who wore “Calvin Klein jeans,” you told me to write something more serious and that writing funny things isn’t good writing. When I wrote a poem and chose to read it in front of the class and then got made fun of for it—you took me aside and said, “When other people don’t like what we’re doing—it’s best to not keep getting up and doing it.”* You were wrong.

*True story.

INTRODUCTION

I’m sitting on my couch in just a bra and sweatpants. For some reason I also have a cocktail ring on my right finger and a feather headband atop my head. I’m too embarrassed to wear the feather-band outside of the house—although I guess not too embarrassed to commit to print that I’m wearing it and knee-high pom-pom slippers late at night. When I’m on a writing procrastination binge I start playing dress-up, and I just got bored and quit halfway through, so now I’m procrastinating my game of dress-up by finishing writing the introduction to this book. This is just one example of what it is to be me. Besides the usual distractions from life—friends calling in tears because they’re heartbroken, flat tires, deaths in the family, leaks in the ceiling, work—I pretty much have the ability to do whatever I want, whenever I want because I don’t have children. That’s not the only reason why I don’t want children—it’s just one perk.

And yes, I don’t want children. As far as I know, I can have children. But I’m not great with kids and the thought of raising them scares me—it’s more terrifying to me than an empty house in the woods or a clown doll sitting in a chair. You’re just so screwed if you find yourself in any of these situations! There’s no way out!

Most people assume that “doing whatever I want” includes partying all night and enjoying my hangover without a toddler sitting on my head. But I’m actually pretty mild. I got nervous one time after taking Benadryl three nights in a row to fall asleep. I fantasized about whether I would have to call my loved ones before checking in to Betty Ford or would someone from the rehab center go through my iPhone for me?

I remember asking my mom when I was little if I could go live at this place in Boston called “The Home for Little Wanderers.” I didn’t realize that it was a facility for orphans. It sounded to me more like a place for free spirits who knew that even if they loved where they were one moment, that could change tomorrow. One thing I know about myself is that everywhere I go is my new favorite place. And I’m not a cold, heartless vagabond either. If in my wandering I end up reading to children at a zoo in Madagascar—wonderful! I don’t hate kids. I just hate the idea of dragging a kid around with me as he or she is forced to adapt to my lifestyle. I also don’t want to have to carry animal crackers around in my purse.

I have a picture of my cat from childhood, Mittens, on my living room wall. He’s been dead for twenty-four years. When friends ask me why I don’t just get another tuxedo cat, I say, “I loved Mittens because my mother changed his cat litter. Not me.” I do have a small collection of stuffed-animal tuxedo cats given to me as gifts by people who, I assume, assumed that I needed something to care for. But those kitties are smashed down facefirst in a wicker basket in the bedroom. I’m afraid to look. I think they might be dead.

The way most people feel about loving being a parent is exactly how I feel about not being a parent. I love it. And I can’t imagine my life any other way. I’m one of those people in an ever-growing movement called childfree by choice. I think it’s a clinical and defensive name for what sounds like an otherwise fun group of people. I’ve never actually seen members of this movement all in one place. I guess we’re not as organized or fabulous or as into riding floats as gay people. We live in pockets of cities and suburbs all across America and the world and we