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08/06/2004

Turkey baster? No. Garlic press? Maybe. Grapefruit spoon? Definitely.

Today this site has been getting plenty of traffic from a site devoted to the rants of the childfree-by-choice. It's hard to know where to start.

The rant in question refers to my post about why we don't stop trying, even in the face of disappointment after disappointment. Now, there are a lot of legitimate reasons for finding our struggles disturbing, reasons many of us have explored ourselves. If the anonymous poster had crafted a thoughtful vent about the selfishness and waste he or she sees in our continued efforts, I could understand and even — I swear — agree in some small part, as those are feelings I've had myself as I debated whether to continue.

But no. The poster called us "wannabreed bitches," "airheads," and "turkey-baster fucking, dumbfuck breeder cunts," and left it at that.

Okay!

Although I believe the idea that people without children are systematically shortchanged by society is misguided, I think it's worth discussing. Although I can't see how my desire to have children infringes on the rights of others not to, I'm willing to listen. And although I don't believe our reproductive choices are anyone's business but Paul's and mine, I grudgingly accept that others have opinions on the subject.

So, you know, yeah, I'm a wannabreed bitch, but I don't think I'm that much of an asshole. Airhead dumbfuck, sure, but a cunt? And for the record, on the long list of items I have fucked, a turkey baster does not appear. (The balloon whisk for my Kitchen Aid has been strangely appealing of late, and we won't even talk about the lemon reamer, but turkey baster? No. I make my own gravy without it, thank you.)

I look at the comments you wrote in response to my post — sincere, eloquent, and poignant, opening your hearts to share some deeply intimate feelings — and I get angry.

Where the fucking fuck does anyone get off, dismissing those feelings so glibly, with such ugliness?

I promise you that not a single one of the women here takes her children for granted, should she manage to have them at all, or assumes she's entitled to anything. (Infertility teaches us that, and it's a hard fucking lesson to learn.) I swear that for every story a childfree person has about being nosily asked when he or she is going to have kids, an infertile woman has three or four, every bit as infuriating and humiliating if not more so. And I would bet cash money that an infertile woman — especially one fresh off another negative — can summon just as much outrage about inconsiderate self-centered "breeders" as the angriest childfree advocate.

I don't think we're the enemy, if there has to be one.

Nor are we bitches, airheads, or dumbfuck cunts. We're people. We're worthy of more careful consideration than the slapped-on label of "ovarian-obsessed cows." And the kitchen implements we choose to fuck are none of anyone's goddamn business.

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