Greetings, Off Boarders! My my, I have missed you. I’ve been down and out the last few weeks with some kind of nasty monster cold. Blech. I even missed going to krav maga, if that tells you anything. Missing krav isn’t cool; you tend to get a little dry on adrenaline, as if being sick isn’t bad enough. There are claw marks on the walls at home. What can I say, we ladies of the mixed martial arts mindset don’t like being caged.

The thing is, while no one likes being sick, the time off gave me extra minutes to reflect on how much I like my life the way it is. For instance, being a sick childfree person is way, way, way better than being a sick parent. Sick parents don’t really get days off. Junior still needs his hot oatmeal, and Sherrie still needs to be picked up from school at 3:15. There is no off switch, no clocking out. You’re on call 24-7, and chances are that if you’re sick, your kid is sick too. Parents have to put themselves on the backburner, and I think that’s part of why they seem to be sick so much. That and they have children who lick the floor at Wal-Mart (true story).

While I was feeling poorly, I could mostly zonk out and take care of myself, although taking care of myself isn’t something I’m all that great at. It’s one of my goals for the year, actually, learning to be kinder to myself. Luckily, no one really relied on me when I was ill except a pesky rat bastard cousin who crashed here (another blog for another day), and the hubs was glad to pick up burritos for dinner or eat up whatever meals I managed.

Which brings me to a funny tidbit about ole Aurora Bordeaux: Most cold medicines, particularly in the Nyquil family, pretty much make me black out. I’ll be there, talking to you, working, whatever, but I lose huge patches of time and can’t seem to recall much of what happened while I was on the over the counter meds. I have zero desire to ever take meth–less than zero thanks to my other cousin with three kids, who is a living illustration of what it can do to your teeth–but I can only imagine what it would do to me if plain old Dayquil turns me into a blackout zombie.

Writing Baby Off Board has been an amazing experience, but it has also altered my day to day perspective about life. I used to think about not having kids and how much I liked it, but lately I do so without any guilt whatsoever because I’m so much more confident in who I am. Even though I’ve missed blogging the last three weeks because I wasn’t quite myself, I have to say in the same breath that one of the biggest perks of the childfree lifestyle is the lower rate of responsibility. I love what I do, but it’s also nice to know that those activities can be put on pause if I need to take a breather. Not so with parenting unless you have great friends or family, or the slush fund for a nice nanny.

Time off luckily gave me some solid yarns to tell, ranging from funerals to rat bastard cousin encounters to yet another baby shower and everything in between. I can’t wait to get back in the game.

Signing back on,

Aurora Bordeaux

Having kids is complicated. For one, you have to know where they are all the time. Being childfree with two dogs, on the other hand, is generally not that complicated. Dogs aren’t quite as involved because you just need to have a general idea of where they are most of the time. You want to make sure they’re not choking on anything, chewing up that frayed corner of the carpet you’re hoping prospective buyers don’t notice whenever you finally put the house on the market, or whizzing on another corner of the carpet. Most of the time, keeping track of dogs is not that hard.

The same is not true of puppies. Puppies, like babies, are a little stupid. They have to be monitored with an extra level of care so they don’t try to eat the radio, swallow a bar of soap (true story courtesy of Bosco), or attempt to leap through a closed window to let that bird outside have it.

Which is why I panicked today when I lost my life sized teddy bear and beloved puppy friend, Charminator.

I was working from home and on conference calls all day, my brain still somewhat addled by non-use over the Christmas holiday. Around lunchtime I transitioned from work calls to chatting on the phone with one of my oldest friends, who I’ll call Margo, about changing my name.

I had decided to solicit Margo’s opinion on my name options so far because she’s an upstanding lady worthy of medals the world hasn’t created yet. I love her dearly. Margo also styled two wonderfully individual, unique children’s names of her own. Her kids’ names are completely unconventional yet manage to be suitable, honorable, and classy. Margo found names that were so off the beaten path no one had ever heard of them, yet they were easy to say, simple to remember, and work perfectly for her kids. Margo was my best known naming expert, and one of a very few people I was willing to solicit straight up for an opinion.

Margo was doling out thoughtful comments on my choice du jour when I realized something wasn’t quite right. A back part of my brain detected an uncanny stillness, as if an alarm was going off that warned, “Charminator doesn’t usually go this long without waking up from her nap. Stop what you’re doing and check to make sure she’s not dead.” I stood up as I listened to Margo, scanning the room’s corners and behind furniture for my sleeping bear. I found no sweet, rumpled shapes anywhere. My brain clicked on a red hot BOLO alert for the rascal and my heart pounded. Dear God, where was Charminator!?!

It took me a half minute that felt like an age before I remembered I had tucked her away in her kennel and shut the bedroom door so she didn’t bark at the UPS man all morning while I was on work calls. I felt like a dupe of a dog parent, but then counted my blessings. At least Charminator was safe and sound, and at least I hadn’t forgotten a whole child. As Margo sometimes says—Phew, one less thing.

Everybody loves twins, including me. I mean, what’s not to love? It’s like you have a person, but then there’s two of them, and therefore they’re each exponentially more awesome no matter what. Twins are super cute to see in Costco, with their funny double shopping cart baby covers and their duplicitousness. Whenever you see twins at Costco, you can’t help but stop in your tracks and say “aww.” They’re also mighty cute in gum commercials. Plus, if you have a twin, you can blame the “evil twin” for your wrongdoings: imoscar.org.

But that’s part of the problem with having twins. Everyone, everywhere, all the time, stops you and says “aww.” Then they ask a series of repetitive questions: Are the maternal, or paternal, or fraternal, or whatever? Do they wear matching clothes? Do they finish each other’s sentences and have a special language? And so on.

I know this happens because we’re assaulted by the same series of third degrees from random strangers every time we take Bosco or Charminator anywhere. I thought it was nice the first three times it happened, but now I think of it as an infringement on my privacy and free time. Bitchy? Maybe. But I’m an introvert and I don’t love being approached by strangers.

Being the parent of something cute and fun is cute and fun. But taking those things out into the real world can be a real difficulty—no one lets you get anything done.

Over Thanksgiving dinner at our house, my friend felt her twins kicking and invited me to put my hand on her tummy, so I thought, well, what the hell. I’m usually against that sort of thing, but I was trounced with exhaustion and had a bourbon or two by then.

To my surprise, it was kind of exciting feeling a little pat from a foot that felt like it was about the size of a pecan. It was the closest thing I have ever felt to a living battery. I would bet money on the hypothesis that the guys who created The Matrix came up with that zoom-out scene where you realize the robot energy source is infants in pods when they felt twins kicking in someone’s tummy. It was cool.

In case my sci-fi sentiments frighten other adamant never-tummy-touchers, let me comfort you by saying the experience did not make me want to get pregnant. I can appreciate my friend’s experience without wanting to do it myself, the same way I can appreciate someone having a nice trip to Cleveland and say, “I’m glad you had a nice time. I would prefer Hawaii.”

The upside to Bosco and Charminator is that, when I need to go to Costco (or Hawaii), I can leave them behind in the safety and silence of the house. You can’t do that with twins. They have to come with you. All the time. Everywhere. Getting through a trip to Costco is hard enough without more people than usual stopping your flow of traffic. That’s why I can’t risk having twins. And if I ever feel the need to hang out with any, I can always borrow my friend’s. Lord knows she’ll be desperate for free childcare soon enough.

I am by no means a booze hound. But sometimes, a sip of bourbon or casual craft beer is just the ticket. After a long day at work or to supplement a long day of relaxation, I like a little drink now and then. A sip of something bubbly makes a regular childfree day a childfree party. Because it’s just the hubs, myself, and two dogs who mostly manage their own affairs, a drink or two doesn’t really affect anyone in the house.

This is not the case when you have children.

The boozing days of women guzzling the hard stuff at 8 months pregnant in scenes from Mad Men are long gone. Women today are expected to swear off everything fun, including sushi, regular tea, alcohol, and pumping gas. Not that pumping gas is exactly a hoot, but my friend Dana wouldn’t pump gas when she was pregnant because she said the fumes would damage the baby. True story.

Not drinking during pregnancy also extends to your significant other, not just because they’re supposed to suffer along with you, but because they may need to drive your ass to the hospital at the drop of a hat. My pregnant friends are always being whisked off to the hospital for some crisis or another, which means their studs are on sober watch from here to eternity.

Once you pass the goal line of delivery, the buzzer signaling the end of your careful sobriety still does not jangle. If you breastfeed, tack on another year or two without a drop if you live in the ultra-judgy U.S. of A. I’ve been told that French women can get away with a lot more, but isn’t that always the case? I often feel that I should have been French, or possibly Canadian. Or French Canadian. But since I’ll never be pregnant, my point of origin is moot because I can have a drink whenever I please.

Okay, mom, so you’ve finished breastfeeding—huzzah! But you’re still not ready for that drinky drink. Why, you ask? Because you have to give your toddler a bath tonight, and they’re ultra slippery little fishes! At the Big Family Beach Vacation last summer, I had two beers and then somehow found myself helping give the toddlers a bath. It was terrifying. I thought, holy crap, if I screw this up I could literally kill one of them. Fear of murdering small people by accident is a serious buzz kill.

When you’re a parent with small kids in the house, is there really any way to drink responsibly? It would be so much more work. What if they fall out of bed and need stitches? What if they get sick? Parents are always on call.

Being childfree basically means living a life with far fewer consequences. Late nights, watching Spiderman really loud, an extra drink, or even accidentally having too many drinks doesn’t damage someone little who depends on you. It’s a much less pressurized life. Parents can cut loose from time to time, sure, but it requires a lot more planning and can add up fast after the babysitting tab is paid.

I’m not a big drinker because I don’t always tolerate booze well and staying off the sauce keeps me slim-ish, but it’s nice to sip some bourbon now and then. And, should I feel like indulging, it’s okay. Booze-ya! (See, what I did there, is I took “boo-ya” and made it “booze-ya.” Ha, ha.)

Some people have real allergies. I get that. I have a handful myself. For example, if I come into contact with glue, I get a raging red mark that doesn’t vanish for two days. If you have a legit allergy, then this isn’t really about you. However, to me, it seems like many people with “allergies” may be delusional rather than ill. Allergies have become way too popular.

I am sick to death of the recent outbreak of parents who are convinced that innumerous inanimate substances will kill their child. It’s birthday cake, folks. Not napalm. “Allergies” have become so celebrated that it almost seems cool to be sick and picky.

I’m sorry, but I’m willing to bet good money on the idea that at least half of kids walking around with a “gluten allergy” could have a slice of cake and somehow find a way to pull through. If the human race is half as weak as the pasty, over-sheltered, antibacterial slathered munchkins some parents are cranking out these days, then that’s yet another reason I don’t want to contribute to our continuance. If we’re that vulnerable, we don’t deserve to make it.

I’m not talking about kids with real allergies, the ones who inhale a whiff of peanut and keel over. I’m talking about the epidemic of imagined allergies that parents have concocted in a blind effort to make their kids immortal or, who knows, maybe just have something (anything) that sets their perfect stars apart.

I understand that food isn’t what it used to be. Lots of foods are full of weird additives and fillers and funny business. But I’m not talking about “whole” foods versus “fake” foods. I’m talking about the zillions of new subscribers to the idea that their kids are allergic to all things, the ones who just about stop traffic if anyone offers the kid a normal food to nibble on that they believe is outside the parameters of the digestible. Being around children is worse than being in a zoo–at least in a zoo, you can sometimes offer the critters a crunchy snack to munch on.

Controlling your kid’s food so tightly for no real reason is weird, and I think it makes them grow up to be overly anal verging on deranged. These children are terrified of everything–germs, gluten, scrapes, dirt. There’s even a trend for suiting up babies in helmets 24/7 (I swear I am not making this up: See?). If people shelter their kids from everything, then the kids will grow to be intimidated by everything. How can you experience the world if you’re afraid of getting dirty?

The anklebiters could take a page from the book of Bosco, who isn’t half as picky as most of the kids we know. She’ll eat food off the floor, food off your hand, food off your plate when your back is turned. We adore cheerios. Bosco likes sweet potatoes, the occasional sneaky French fry, bacon, jerky, and if I’m being completely honest, a miniature plate of turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving (she is part of the family, after all). We take walks, try new things, jump in lakes, and dabble in occasional slices of  birthday cake. We fear neither gluten nor nuts nor fats nor salts, and we’re healthy as horses anyway.

Parents should swap some of their multivitamins for chill pills. After all, it’s only cake.

Every family tree has a branch that’s a little trashier than the rest of the trunk. You know, “that cousin” who just can’t seem to get it together, the one whose deranged and wandering life sounds more like fiction than fact.

Lucky for me, I don’t have one of those cousins in my family. I have three.

No one’s sure what went wrong with this appendage of our family hardwood. We come from a good, cold-bearing stock of folk who may once have been Prussian. We’re a mix of accountants, attorneys, college graduates in mediocre but living-wage jobs, etc. We’re normal.

But my three cousins are not.

Ever since they were guzzling pots of coffee at the ripe old age of six, these three haven’t been quite right. Though there is a treasure trove of juicy, gemlike anecdotes to choose from, I can’t say much without risking giving their identities (or mine) away. Basically, the stories tell like something out of Catcher in the Rye without the charm, a collection of mishaps, misfires, and miscreants that add up to three piles of life that just aren’t worth a whole lot in the scheme of things.

While I’ve been busy living a productive, happy, and functional existence, one of my three wackadoo cousins has been hard at work getting knocked up with three children with her ex-husband who she also has a restraining order against. Though the kids are well into their childhood years, they rarely speak and spend most of their time staring blankly at Dora the Explorer who stares just as blankly back at them from an iPad. They float from trailer park to trailer park in the heart of America living off food stamps and playing Wii, not learning anything, not developing, all while their mother sits in a stationary position and eats. The one bit of good news in this tragic situation is that the government (aka, me and you) are footing the bill for all of it.

I look at my life, at my happy hubs, my clean and quiet home, a perky Bosco, and I think, “Pretty good.” Then I look at my cousin’s life of mindless breeding and chaos, and the poor dull-brained children who are the underdog products of two people who should never, ever have procreated, and I think, “Why? How?”

Basically, part of the reason I’m childfree is that I don’t like my nonexistent kids’ odds against the breeding stats of the rest of the world. My sad nimrod cousin has three (now that the ex-husband is back in town, I’m certain they’re making a fourth as we speak). I have zero. It should be the other way around. As we boil the earth to a shambles and resources get tight, I don’t love the idea of leaving my imaginary beloveds alone in a world where they’re that outnumbered. Women now are better educated, have more choices, and can go farther in their careers. The earth is also pretty crowded already. I’m never going to even out my cousin’s ratio of smart to, well, not smart, so why try?

One thing I’ve been surprised to discover in the childfree community since I figured out there was one a few months ago when I started this blog was the bitter feelings many childfree seem to have towards “breeders,” or those that have kids mindlessly. However, whenever I have a good friend who I love that gets pregnant, I have to root for more. The more people who balance out the human race, the better. I say to those good people out there who want children–have them. My cousin has a major head start on you already. Get busy.

I’m sure all of this sounds harsh, and that I might come off as a nasty person for saying these things about my cousin and her many kids. If it helps my credibility, everyone in the family shares the same opinions on the matter, and we’re a very level headed and rational clan.

If you don’t believe me, take it from my authoritative grandma, Mimo: “Oh, the kids are so cute! So cute. Dumb as rocks. But cute.”

One of the awkward things about being a childfree person on a family vacation with all parents is that they’re not really on vacation. Sure, there’s miniature golf and ice cream, but the parents never actually get to relax. They’re too busy working hard all the time. For them, vacation is exactly like being at home, except worse.

I always thought the point of a vacation was to get away from everyday routines and relax. I have spent our days here reading, napping, discreetly sucking down box wine or bourbon, and sneaking caseloads of Doritos down my maw. I should not feel guilty about this, since again, we’re supposed to be on a trip. But everyone else, despite our supposed relaxation destination, works nonstop. From the hour before dawn until long after twilight, the other adults here spend their time bustling away at vital tasks punctuated by brief spells of reading.

One of the most amusing books they’re engulfed in is 50 Shades of Grey. You know, that new hot-stuff sex book that suburbanite housewives are all fanning their reddened cheeks over. Of course, no one here is getting off on it—never!—they’re “only curious to see what the fuss is about.” Mmm hmm. I haven’t read the book and certainly won’t do so in the presence of my in-laws, but I gather that it’s basically another adult version of Twilight where an average girl is for some reason adopted by an outrageously wealthy sex god who buys her cars and worships her for no apparent reason. It’s a narcissistic wet dream. And, hey, maybe it’s sexy too–if that gets you going, I am not here to judge (you).

Moving back to the topic, even though the hubs and I haven’t worked hard since we’ve been here, our lives are in infinitely better order than everyone else’s. My clothes are matched and clean, our bed is made every morning, and I emerge at 8:00 a.m. on the nose looking like I actually slept. The rest of the house looks like a hurricane blew through it, and every other couple’s room is a snarling tangle of clothes and toys and indiscernible mess. Everything in our room is neatly organized and easy to find. It’s not that I’m a neat freak, it’s just that I realize it takes less time to give something a spot and keep it there than it does to find it in uncharted mayhem.

The parents all come running when the kids cry or won’t stop screaming, fearing the worst. They prep breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a neverending series of snacks like sous chefs on an episode of Hell’s Kitchen. They give baths, lecture, read goodnight stories, and tuck in. And when it’s all over and the kids are passed out from sun-filled days of seaside bliss, the parents get to clean it all up. I watch it all with my nose in a book from the porch, sipping bourbon and wondering if they think I’m an alcoholic.

I have no kids and have used a total of three cups since we’ve been here, but even though I have not contributed to the mayhem, I feel like a little bit of a jerk when I sit lounging on the patio while everyone else is working like dogs. But let’s face it, I didn’t sign up to be part of the village that raises these children.

This just shows me that when you are a parent, there is no such thing as vacation. Even if you get someone to watch the kids for a weekend so you can sneak away, I am pretty sure that once you get to whatever bed and breakfast you’re visiting, all you want to do is sleep.

I recently had lunch with a friend who has an 18-month old. During lunch, I discreetly dropped a few f-bombs, one of my favorite salty words to pepper into conversation for oomph. While I try not to overuse curse words the same way I try not to overuse booze, sometimes swearing is just super duper fun. I love it.

My friend and her husband used to swear right along with me to the same degree—never screaming out loud in public or anything, but when it suited a story or seasoned the conversation. The thing is, when I had lunch with my friend this past time, I noticed that she never once cursed. What was going on?

She’s living with an 18-month old parrot. That’s what’s going on.

People with kids realize fast that whatever they say is going to be mimicked and repeated in loops for the next 5-7 years. Some people, like my grandmother Mimo, think the phenomenon is hysterical and use the opportunity to teach small children (re: me at age 2) words like “shit,” which the children (re: me) then chirp out at the dinner table. Fun for Mimo, but for some reason mothers don’t usually see the humor in it.

Profanity can be awesome, but when you become a parent, it’s generally accepted that you have to forfeit you love of “fuck.” While I may try (or pretend to try) to temper my language in everyday life, at least there are few consequences if I slip up. Sometimes it’s a hoot to plunge running and screaming into the profanity slip ‘n slide, hands held high, ready for a mouth full of soap.

In no time at all, I’ll soon be on vacation with the hubs’s family in some far flung sand-laden destination. I plan to spend the week as I always do when massive family is around; that is to say, sneaking glugs of bourbon into my fizzy soda beverages because no one else drinks (How do they do this? What’s the secret?). But because there are a multitude of kiddies dominating every crevice of the rental home, I’ll also spend the week tripping over my words as I scramble to edit out curses before they escape my sinner’s lips. For background on why I even give a shit about my language around these people, see Aurora Bordeaux: Ex-Auntie.

I’ve gone so far to tiptoe that I’ve even made a list of alternative swears to sub in. It’s the equivalent of relentlessly smacking a sticker on your arm instead of taking a good long drag of something you know will kill you, but hey. I love the hubs, and he loves these folks, so I’m going to try.

Unfortunatlely, the only good substitues I have found so far are: cheese and crackers (multiple uses), Bob Saget (G-dammit), bananatown (batshit crazy), and… That’s it, really. They’re the skim milk to my usual helpings of heavy whipping cream, but what’s a gal to do?

So with that, I bid my childfree friends adieu for today. Cheese and crackers, muthafuckas! Wish me luck…

Times have changed. As a fully grown human, I now see that the seats are way too small and everyone around me is way too fat. I feel constantly bullied by pushy assholes trying to cut in line or whack me brainless in the narrow aisles just so they can wedge an oversized bag big enough to contain its own small jet into overhead compartments that threaten to spring loose from their screws any minute. Am I the only one who looks up at these overhead compartments with trepidation, the only one able to recognize that if they stop doing their jobs, they could come crashing down mid-flight and kill us all?

Today, flying is a hell I can cope with only with the assistance of a strong set of noise cancelling headphones, my Nintendo DS, and preferably a cocktail. (Side note: You can bring booze on planes, you just have to put it in a container of less than 3.4 oz. A plastic bag can hold lots of these.) I plug in my Zelda or Kingdom Hearts, set the volume on Lady Gaga to nuclear, and gently rock myself back and forth as I pretend that I’m the only person left alive on the planet.

Flying is made unbearable not just by children, but by parents who, for some reason, are unwilling or unable to drug their kids for the duration of the flight. Why are the little monsters allowed to run screaming through the airport, screaming through the bathrooms, screaming down the aisles? They fidget, rollick, roil, roll. They shake the back of my seat until I’m forced to be “that person” and turn to scowl at them.

The most abominable kids are the ones who are so unfamiliar with discipline and respect that they take the scowl as a personal challenge instead of a humbling bitchslap. That’s when you know you’re in real trouble; if you run into a child that thinks he can take you head on, then buckle up. Torturing you while zonked out parents illegally play with their iPhones in flight just became the kid’s only fun project, because of course the parents didn’t bring so much as a coloring book to entertain the urchin. Time to turn the volume on Lady Gaga even higher and grit your teeth. It’s going to be a long flight.

Once, when visiting the hubs, I was wedged next to a woman with a baby. I was younger then and still felt required to please the world at large, so I made some nice comment about how cute it was. She took this as a green light to whip out her breasts and spend what felt like the next hour holding her kid’s head to her tit, mere inches from my tense collegiate frame. That’s not cool, moms. Not cool.

If I were to run shrieking through the plain, I would promptly be tazed and cuffed. If I were to flash my boobs to strangers, I might be tazed and cuffed, or I might be encouraged–probably depends on the audience. But either way, parents and kids get away with some ridiculous mid-flight behaviors based on rules that the rest of us don’t get to play by.

All of this leads up to a single point of advocacy that we should have airlines that don’t allow children… I call it Baby Off Board: The Airline. However, since I have neither the resources nor the knowhow to start a new airline, you can for now fly Malaysia Airlines, which plans to offer zones just for childfree-ers. Isn’t that magical?

Check your children at the gate, leave them at home, I don’t care. I’d consider paying a premium for some gosh darn P&Q at 20,000 feet. If you must bring them with you, then for the love, at least dope them up on children’s Nyquil. Nite nite, have a nice flight.

A few slim months ago, I was a childfree gal blubbering in a puddle because a doctor stepped on my feelings for not wanting children. Then the spark of an idea for a blog about being childfree in this modern world of ours hit me, and I thought, “Well, let’s turn this indignity into something.”

Baby Off Board was born. (By the way, I could just about smack myself for how easy and obvious that sentence was. Forgive me, dear readers, forgive me.)

Anywho. I figured, let’s put some honest thoughts and stories out there for the world to see. Who knows, maybe someone will read it. Through no promotion whatsoever (not a single soul outside my writing contributors and the hubs even know my true identity), the site has reached 30,000 hits in less than two months. It’s frankly overwhelming.

The funny thing is, when I realize how many people that is, I literally look around my office and cower an inch, as if all of you can see me.

I just wanted to say thanks to every single reader for showing up to the party. It has been so cool to get to know you and read your clever and heartfelt comments, but more than that, it has been truly amazing for me to realize that I am not the only one of my kind. After a lifetime of feeling out of place for not having interest in mommy-hood, that is an incredible comfort.

I wish we could all get together for some massive worldwide pizza party to don cone-shaped hats and blow on noisemakers in celebration of the 30,000^th visit, but for now, my genuine feelings of goodwill and gratitude will have to do. Robert Brault said, “There are exactly as many special occasions in life as we choose to celebrate.” Well, darlings, I’m celebrating 30,000 with my favorite fizzy beverage and a chuckle at how fun and funny life can be. That doctor was being a meanie, but without that push, I wouldn’t be blogging and I wouldn’t be connected with all you great childfree folks.

The party will continue every week here on Baby Off Board—after all, there is so much fun left to be had, so much more left to say. Sans enfants, and cheerio!