I’m not trying to be rude here. If I were, I wouldn’t have liked that video of your baby rolling over or that picture of a hairbow clipped into her three little wisps of geriatric-looking hair. I’m a really nice person and I’m trying to be cool here, but to be perfectly honest, I’m only pretending to like your baby.
Yes, I’m going to “like” it on Facebook when you post that your emergency trip to the baby ER was only a case of constipation. What I’m really thinking though is that I didn’t have to spend that extra money on a deductible and an insurance premium. Yeah, I commented when you exclaimed that your 9-week-old finally slept through the night for the first time. What I’m really thinking is that nothing — literally nothing — would get me out of bed at 4 a.m. every night for 9 weeks, or any amount of time, really. Not a hookup. Not a million dollars. Literally nothing.
I’m trying as hard as I can to be supportive here. But our lives are in vastly different places and it’s really freaking hard. Oh, little Jonny only shit his pants once in the middle of the night? Cool. I slept for 12 straight hours because I can. I also bought myself a nice bottle of wine and a few new pairs of pants just because of the sheer fact that I don’t have to spend all of my disposable income on formula and diapers.
Contrary to popular opinion, I can support your poorly-thought-out decision to bring life into this world while not actually caring about your baby. It’s fine that you decided to skip over your twenties to stay home on your husband’s entry-level salary to take care of a crying infant around the clock. Seriously, do whatever makes you happy, but don’t expect me to care. Don’t get offended if I don’t think your baby’s cute. It literally looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen. Maybe one day I’ll be longing to be fulfilled by the joys of motherhood, but right now, I’m pretty happy focusing on myself, and I will be for many years to come.
Let’s just get the obvious out in the open. I’m being nice about your baby because I care about you and I want to stay in your life, but I don’t really care. I can barely keep a plant alive, and I enjoy buying things for myself — neither of which bode well for child ownership. You care about your baby, and I care about, well, myself — which, to be perfectly honest, is perfectly fine in your twenties. So I’m going to live it up, you’re going to raise your perfect (albeit wildly in debt) little family, and just know that when I ask about little Emma, I’m really just trying to be polite. At least for the next 10 years, anyway..
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