No sir, my finger does not lactate.

They say that the best birth control is babysitting. I am not sure who “they” are, but “they” are entirely accurate with that statement.

Last night, while allowing my addictive hair stylist to cut my hair in a stranger’s kitchen (given, it was a friend of hers…but somehow made me feel like I was looking for one more hair-high…regardless of location) I witnessed the inner workings of a family of three.

While holding a crying newbie, desperate for his mother’s boob, I had color slathered on my previously neglected hair. You would not believe how difficult it is to explain to a baby that you are not, in fact, able to feed him. Oddly, he was satisfied sucking on my finger for a short period of time. Until, of course, he realized that much like my boobs, my finger didn’t lactate either.

Meanwhile, two toddlers — who wouldn’t talk to me otherwise due to shyness of strangers — were running in and out of the room, waiting for a simple “boo” from me. At which point, they were scream playful, piercing child-screams of giddiness and run back out of the room, leaving me with the newbie who, if he could, would push the dislike button.

And continued to wail of unhappy hunger.

R continued with the color, in a soothing, “Momma’s doing hair. I’ll be there in a minute.” Something I realize my own mother rarely would have done then or now. If I called “MOM!” she would rush to my side. I am sure this is instilling some true form of patience into M and O. At 28 (really? You’re only 28?), R has the same tenderness of many mothers. Even when explaining to me that the male-toddler (her friend’s son) had actually bitch-slapped her daughter in the mouth.

And yes, bitch-slap was her term.

Holy crap. Child violence. I am so not ready for this responsibility. Or bigger boobs.

As the night went on, I also learned that in addition to not being ready to be a parent, I will also never buy a house with a circular running path. Providing any small human with a track lacking obstacles, like doors and walls, is simply poor architecture. When given the opportunity to run, with EVERYTHING, children will literally sprint at the opportunity. After witnessing a reenactment of Harry Potter – wand included – I am quite certain my child will be using safety scissors until the age of 16, when the state trusts them with a driver’s license.

I wasn’t even babysitting these children. I was simply a guest. A temporary implant into their life. Can you imagine what would have happened had I been left alone with them?

I can. Only because I once babysat M when she was a baby, insisting that my cousin and his wife had a date night — a term they are no longer familiar with. Though firetrucks, ambulances and CPS were not involved – I am sure that having a small baby pee on your knee then later spit-up ON YOUR FACE would be grounds for leaving her unattended…as joining a convent and life without procreation was calling my name.

So the next time you are strolling through Target (OMG I LOVE TARGET!!), passing the baby clothes and hearing yourself go “awwwwww cuuuuuteeeee!” remember that yes, floral prints in a mini-sized onesie is adorable.

Until it’s covered in poop.

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