Tie 'Em in a Bow

I'm not trading kids for a fabulous career or jet-set lifestyle. I'm content to follow a life plan that will end with my living in an RV in Las Vegas and spending my savings on bingo at Arizona Charlie's.

I'm not foregoing motherhood because I'm worried about the environment. I drive an SUV, I miss styrofoam containers, and I think nine-legged, eight-eyed frogs are signs of evolutionary progress.

I don't want kids because I don't want kids. No one wants a list of reasons why I don't want to be an actress or pilot or transgendered English professor -- and if I wanted kids, no one would ask me to explain why.

But the world is my shrink when I say that kids aren't in my future.

It's impossible to believe. Everyone wants kids, even if they don't particularly like them. It's what people do when their careers peak or there's a five-hour blackout or the birth control pills are mysteriously flushed down the toilet.

It's not a decision that warrants considerable thought. A woman will agonize over dying her hair Brazillian Topaz or Tahitian Honey, but choosing to have a kid is as easy as poking holes in a condom. A man will agonize over which DVD player to buy, but choosing to have a kid is as easy as turning to his wife in bed and saying, "Let's have a kid."

Knowing this, I didn't expect an easy time in convincing a doctor to perform a tubal ligation on me.

I thought of various approaches to use. If I was combative, he'd think I was protesting too much. If I was wishy-washy and apologetic, he'd think I would definitely change my mind.

I considered humor. I would look down at the ground and mumble, "All I'll say is that you don't want to know why I'm an only child." If he pressed, "I'm not allowed to discuss it. That's what the judge said, anyway."

And that's as far as I got. I decided to just wing it.

The morning of my appointment was prophetic. I went to the library to do research for a paper, and a man was seated at one of the computer terminals with his squirmy, noisy sprog.

Determined to not let a kid ruin his quest for porn, he unleashed her on the other patrons. She ran and gurgled and ran and squealed. Even the homeless black guy looked repulsed, and he was fucking covered in maggots and human feces.

She ran over to me, hoping to get approval, but I didn't acknowledge her presence. Her father walked over, with the gleam of horniness in his eye, and said, "Isn't she just the cutest?" I glared at him. "Man," he said, "I wish I had that kind of energy again!" and he walked away.

If I'd ever been unsure before that moment, little Bratley convinced me. I was ready to deal with whatever the doctor threw at me.

As I entered the waiting room, a big sign greeted me. "Dr. X had her baby! It's a girl!" Glad I'm not going to her, I thought.

The receptionist handed me the necessary paperwork to fill out, and I found a seat. I was the only non-pregnant, non-childburdened woman in the room.

One mother had a four-year-old girl who spouted such precious gems as "Foogedabodid" and a two-year-old boy who was the four year old's punching bag. Both wanted attention. Desperately.

The four-year-old pretended to trip, and she fell to the ground. "I falleded." I kept my focus on the paperwork, but I could feel the other women melt.

After I handed in my paperwork, a breeder with the biggest stroller I've ever seen walked in, and I swear, she was carrying an Anne Geddes book. It was a surreal scene. Every stereotype neatly wrapped up in one woman.

Finally, it was my turn. I waited for a bit in the exam room, and the doctor came in and said that he wanted to talk about my visit before examining me.

The consultation started off with the mundane, and then he asked about birth control. I told him that I was interested in a more permanent method of birth control. He smirked as he asked me what kind of permanent method.

"A tubal."

He started to throw out every clichι you could imagine, and I answered him with, "The same could apply to a woman who wants kids."

He agreed, and then I asked him if he'd grill me if I said that I wanted eight kids. "Probably not," he said.

Then he started in on other birth control methods. I told him that I wasn't interested in other methods. I wanted to be sterilized.

He paused for a moment, and a lightbulb flashed over his head. Aha! he thought. He'd get me with his next question.

"What would happen if you broke up with your boyfriend?" he asked.

"I don't want children with anyone," I answered. "And the right guy won't want kids, either."

And then he asked a question that would send Coatlique into seizures. "What if you meet a millionaire?"

A millionaire? As if the promise of a $15,000 diamond engagement ring is worth compromising my principles.

I responded, "What, do you think I'm a whore?"

Maybe he was an asshole, maybe he wasn't -- but it was painfully clear that he was just trying to keep his head above water in the discussion.

Mentally flipping through his index of pronatalist slogans, he settled on, "But it's different when they're your own!" He chuckled at his cleverness.

"Sure," I answered, "with my own kid, I can't get away from it. Look, doctor, I'm an intolerant, impatient, abusive woman who has little respect for human life..."

He cut me off. "I have two kids. TRUST ME, it's different with your own."

I inquired if he'd stand by that statement if I had a kid, only to throw it out of a window because "just being in your waiting room was like the seventh circle of Hell for me."

He quickly changed the subject to the regret that his patients have had after being sterilized.

"I've performed tubals on women older than you, and they had kids. Almost all of them were back in my office a year later saying what a mistake they had made, and they wanted more kids," he recounted.

"What does that have to do with me?" I asked. "I don't have children. If you've never performed a tubal on a childless woman, how would you know if they go on to regret it? From what I understand, it's usually yuppie types who realize that material goods don't fulfill them who change their minds."

That might be true, he said, but he knew an inner-city woman who changed her mind! Imagine that. "Well, there was an inner-city woman who came in and cried about having had her tubes tied. She didn't want a sixth kid, but then she regretted it. (scratches chin and looks toward ceiling) She was really someone who shouldn't have had kids."

I waited to bang my head against a hard surface until I got home. He acknowledged that some women shouldn't have kids, but I couldn't possibly be one of them.

"Don't you think the world would be a better place if people who knew they shouldn't be parents didn't have kids?" I asked.

"Well, yes..." he said.

Time for the big guns. I clasped my hands and put on the sweetest smile. "Well, I've been seeing a psychologist to ensure that this is the right decision for me, and not just a knee-jerk reaction to my life experiences. My psychologist agrees that having a tubal is in my best interest. She does not think I should have children."

I lied through my fucking teeth.

This seemed to appeal to him, and after I elaborated on my phantom psychologist, he agreed to perform the tubal if I could provide a note from the psychologist. "Do you want a note from my mommy, too?"

In a serious tone, he told me that wouldn't be necessary.

"You've given me a lot to think about," he said. "I've never met a woman without kids who wanted to have a tubal. I'll have to ask the other doctors in the practice if we have a policy about this, but you are over 21, and you're an adult. Call me next week, and we'll talk more."

It went better than I thought it would. I was convinced he'd outright turn me down, but the door is still open. All I need to do is find a psychologist willing to write a note for me.

And if he changes his mind, I'll have my revenge. For next year's appointment, I'm not washing my pussy for a week.

Providing jack-off material for white misogynists since 1997.

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