Little

I've made no bones about the fact that I have no idea whether I want kids or not. 

I go through phases when I do - when a family member has a baby and it's cherub-like features tug at my maternal heart-strings.

I go through phases when I don't - when that same family member's little angel turns in to an absolute little shit and progresses to ruin its own life and everyone else's. 

I mean, how could you live with that? 

Children themselves put me off really. I pass a primary school every morning on my way to school. I witness, first-hand, as mother/fathers send their little darlings off with kisses, cuddles and 'I love yous', only to get nothing in return. Not a goodbye. Not even a wave. Off they scamper into school - the ungrateful little prats. After that man/woman just woke you up, dressed you, wiped your cereal off your manky face, made sure you had all your crap for school and that you weren't late, and you basically give him or her two fingers at the gate. I don't care if you're four or five and can barely form a sentence: you tell your mammy or daddy you love them! Every single morning! There's many a child I have wished to kick for their cheeky behaviour - just think what I'd be like if one of my own did that!

The toys would wreck my head too - the noises, the flashing, the small parts which 'may be a choking hazard'. It's all well and good running around a toy shop when you're five or six or seventeen pressing all the 'Try Me!' buttons on every single toy in sight to annoy the shite out of every employee and customer. I can't imagine how amusing it would be being on the other side. I mean, there's only so many times you can hear Elmo sing a song before you want to punch him repeatedly in the head.

Little kids are strange. And grubby. Realistically, I'm not exactly one to talk here, as my clothes seem to attract stains, (and my hair food), but they really are dirty horrible creatures. A former friend of mine once had a three year old stick a lollipop in her hair. Having said that, she was manhandling the child like it was some sort of handbag, so, in hindsight, I don't really blame the little thing. She deserved it.

Scenarios have played out in my head of my little son or daughter having miserable lives. Being friendless weirdos and myself being able to do nothing about it (it's not as if I could be their bestfriend - can't imagine that would do much for their 'street cred'). I'm perfectly aware that I wouldn't be able to live their lives for them, but when I imagine circumstances like that, I almost wish I could. It would honestly kill me, and I would hold myself utterly responsible. When it boils down to, it is this fear that holds me back ultimately. 

But then there are other things ...

It's the little crayon house with the little crayon windows, proudly pinned to the fridge. Little crayon mammy and daddy stand outside, holding the child's slightly disproportional hands. Smiles on all their faces.

Little laughs, at the things you now consider insignificant. The 'peek-a-boo', the 'aeroplane', the bizarre children's TV shows with their cringey presenters. The very first joke they tell that isn't all that funny and makes little or no sense. You'll still laugh. Even when they say it over and over and over again. 

The ones that say those four little words that make you feel like the best person in the world - "I love you mammy".

Little hands. Little fingers. Little feet. Little toes. 

Little tears stream down little cheeks. Little smiles light up little faces.

Watching them go from 'little' to 'not-so-little', collecting memory after memory as you go.

After all, it's the little things in life that matter most, isn't it?