Update* This blog post was written MONTHS ago and was just sitting in que. I just so happened to stumble across it while weeding through some of my other ideas and it gave me quite the chuckle. Maybe you will find it comical too.  Enjoy!

I remember when my mom gave birth to all of my little brothers.

I remember the frantic hustle and bustle through the house when her water broke and she was rushed off to the hospital to deliver them.

I remember the day she brought them home from the hospital with their small cute squishy faces and their tiny baby lotion scented bodies.

I also remember the day she set their cribs up in my room and deemed them my responsibility.

Night after night I’d wake up to tend to the screaming newborns.

I was an expert on changing diapers and heating bottles to perfect temperature by the time I was fifteen.

When I finally mustered up the courage to ask my mom why she felt it was my responsibility to care for her children in such a capacity, she replied “You’re not going to make me a grandmother before I am fifty years old and if you do, you will know exactly what you’re getting yourself into because I am not going to be nobody’s babysitter.”

For a while after I left my childhood home I struggled back and forth with the idea of wanting to have kids. There was a brief period in my late twenties where I was feeling pressure to want kids by the media and my wife. During this time I had gone and recruited one of my male friends to donate some of his sperm to me to try and get myself pregnant. You should have seen me in the bathroom stall of the pool hall with a cup of his fresh baby gravy and a turkey baster trying to inseminate myself without my wife’s knowledge. I had convinced myself it would be good for our relationship to go and get pregnant on my own. You know, surprise her with this symbol of my love for her. I went home and we talked about what I had done and of course she wasn’t happy about my choice. A few years later, we decided to try again. We began the process of registering with a fertility clinic, we’d had all the tests done, decided to do an at home insemination, and had even agreed on a donor. Through the many misguided attempts I had made to have a child I am so happy none of them actually produced children.

But, just because I don’t have biological children, doesn’t mean I am not still raising them. I am in the process of trying to turn boys into men, or man adjacent. Two of three of my younger brothers are currently living with me and while one of them is understandably dumb as fuck because he’s only eighteen, the other is an inexplicable dumb fuck at a concerning twenty-seven years old. 

Why am I telling you any of this?


All I asked for on vacation was to be left alone. That’s it. Simple enough request, right? Well I learned how ridiculous that request is when you have children, biological or not.

Kids are annoying as hell.

From the very first day it was as if I had never said anything about wanting to be unbothered during my perfectly timed eight day hiatus. Every time I turned around there has been a new request to take them somewhere, pick them up, fix this, help me with this, show me this, I need, I need, I need!


To be fair, the eighteen year old was not too bad. Outside of the few times that he knocked on my door to tell me things I really didn’t give a shit about, he’s left me alone for the most part. Its been the damn twenty-seven year old that has been doing the absolute most. This dude has been more needy that a baby mama during back to school time. I swear.

Everyday has been something new. Can you take me to my job interview, can you help me find an apartment, can I tell you about my day, do you have time to talk about (insert whatever lie he has made up to make himself seem like a responsible adult) can you pick me up from the hospital (dude, you’re twenty-seven, if you can find a way to go to your drinking buddies house, to the fair the next town over, or to a doctors appointment in the next county, you should be able to find your way home from the hospital that’s four miles away.)

I have only been given a glimpse of what raising children is like and I’m here to tell you, I PASS SIS.

I look back on all those times when I tried to get pregnant for my wife and I thank my lucky stars all of our attempts to reproduce failed.

Until next time.

Don’t judge me, you don’t know my life!!!

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