Not Mommy Dearest
This past weekend was the first time I was mistaken for somebody’s mother.
Granted the kid was probably about five or six and not thirty, but still, it made me feel old. I was quite relieved when the kid loudly corrected the bookstore clerk who was trying to find the kid’s mother that his mom was probably browsing somewhere in the back and not at the bargain shelves.
Although now that I think about it, my instant panicky feelings weren’t so much about age as the thought that I was actually responsible for somebody else. I suppose some could argue that I would probably make a better parent compared to some other human beings in existence, but I totally do not feel ready or will ever be ready to be such a person. It’s sort of what I’d imagine how some guy would feel if he were to be informed, out of the blue, that he was a father. Does anyone really, truly understand how much a person has to sacrifice in order to make sure their offspring don’t grow up to be serial killers let alone productive citizens in society?
I’m not sure if I’m responsible enough for myself. I don’t have the time or energy (or inclination at the moment) to even contemplate the notion of spouse, kids, family. It still feels as if I’ve barely had the time to differentiate myself from my own parents. Most likely, in the end, I’ll probably be like any other schmuck toiling away in the great edifice that is society. In the meantime, I want to make something of myself.
I have nothing against kids. And I have nothing against the poor bookstore clerk. But I’m me, and I don’t want to play a supporting role to somebody else, even if it’s as somebody’s mother, even if the supporting role is assumed.