I Want Kids So I’ll Have Someone To Take Care Of Me When I Get Hammered

More people than ever are eschewing parenthood, and if you talk to my peers, they’ll readily tell you why. They’ll say it’s too expensive, or boast about how they’d rather focus on traveling or their careers. Some will even argue it’s unethical. Well, I’ve thought long and hard about bringing children into the world, and to me, the choice is simple. I want kids so I’ll have someone to take care of me when I get hammered.

Let’s face it. One day, my BAC will be getting up there, and when that happens, I don’t want to be alone. When I’m hammered, my body won’t work like it used to. My vision will get worse. I might not be able to hear a damn thing except for the sound of T-Pain blasting through my Bluetooth speakers. I might even piss my pants. When that time comes, I’ll need some devoted son or daughter to hoist me up, take me to the bathroom, and hold my hair while I puke up 32 ounces of Long Island ice tea. 

Some might think it selfish, but the alternative is just too bleak. Can you imagine? Being all by yourself in a big dark empty house, blitzed out of your mind on premixed margaritas? Worried you might fall at any moment? Scared, confused, wasted, alone? No thanks! People can harp on the downsides of having kids all they want, but just think about it. Sooner or later, the Shake Shack you half-consciously ordered on Uber Eats an hour ago is going to arrive at your front door, and your legs will be too wobbly to get it. What then, child-free folks?

I want a big family. I want children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren all gathered at my feet, listening to me slur stories from my youth. I want to hear the pitter-patter of little feet coming to bring me another White Claw—or at least to put me on my side and make sure I’m still breathing. You think I’ll be able to rely on my husband for that? Of course not. He’ll be plastered too. Besides, statistically, husbands are more likely to pass out before their wives.

I remember when my parents got hammered. One moment they’d be drinking punch with all their friends, spry, sharp, laughing, and happy, and the next they’d be practically vegetative on the sofa, capable only of asking the same question again and again: “Was there rum in that?” Of course it wasn’t easy taking care of them. Getting them in and out of the cab and spoon-feeding them Buffalo chicken dip took a huge emotional and physical toll on me. 

Was I the perfect caretaker? No. I’ll admit I got a little impatient toward the end. I didn’t always take their shoes off all the way when I put them to bed. But that’s the thing: I don’t expect my future children to be perfect when I get zooted either. All I ask is that they never put me in some kind of nasty rehab facility. 

And don’t get me started on driving. I don’t care how shitfaced I get. I’m never giving up my keys.

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