People ask me all the time, Sissy, do you plan to have kids. I tell them, no, because I'm too busy with everybody else's kids to even think I'd have time to have my own. I might change my mind once my friends' kids have gotten old enough to babysit for mine. And there are plenty of candidates, believe me. I have three friends who have twins, four others who have two or more, and a couple who have seven kids from previous marriages.
I remember when my friends were first having or getting their kids. They were all bubbly, and glowing, and full of life. Now they mostly look tired. Very tired. Like living on four hours of interrupted sleep kind of tired. I walk in the door and it's like, "Oh, great, Auntie Sissy is here! Go to Auntie Sissy." Next thing I know, I'm doing 20 pound curls with two squirming, drooling, little beings who seem mostly interested in discovering if my teeth are real and if my ears and nose are removable.
Babies are surprisingly heavy, and it's like their weight is distributed in two spots: their heads and their rear ends. And you've got to keep both ends supported at all times or something terrible will happen, like the two ends will get mixed up and they'll grow up to be Log Cabin Republicans or something.
Between adoptions, inseminations, and egg donations, it seems that gay parents are cropping up all over my Andersonville neighborhood. All this reproduction has made the term "breeders" once again specifically refer to people who raise dogs. I always thought that was a stupid euphemism anyway, since it's the same as saying "yo' mama" about your own mother.