In case you got here via that childfree site...

There are some points I'd like to clarify:

1. Charlie was born two days shy of 30 weeks, not 28. It may not seem to make a big difference, but it does. I promise it would if it were a kid you cared about in that isolette, if there are any kids you care about.  (Note that I am carefully avoiding making that assumption, for fear of giving insult where none is intended.)
2. I haven't said anything about his needing to be on "assisted ventilation for at least the next 30 days."  I don't even know what that might be, or how long he'd be on it if I could figure out what the fucking fuck it is.
3. Charlie is neither pear-sized nor pear-shaped. He is closer in weight to sixteen sticks of butter, minus a couple of tablespoons, and closer in mass to a supermarket rotisserie chicken.  Somebody check me here — maybe a canned ham instead? Now I am imagining my baby studded attractively with cloves, festooned with a pineapple slice, in accordance with the garish but helpful SERVING SUGGESTION printed right on the can. I got your modest proposal right here.
4. Hey, so, um, why exactly are you concerned with my reproductive efforts?
5. No, really, I mean it: why?  I haven't even had a chance to become a bad parent yet.
6. If you're happy and secure in your own reproductive choices, why are you wasting your time, your energy, and your valuable AOL minutes eavesdropping on infertiles?
7. Because we're not the problem.  I swear it.  The kid kicking the back of your first-class airline seat ain't mine, after all.
8. Oh, and "hysterical breeder wanna be" lacks pizzazz.  Next time please consider turkey-baster fucking, dumbfuck breeder cunt.  (You gotta admit it sings.)

Posted by Julie at 06:05:26 PM in The Internet is full. Go home.

Comments

In case you got here via that childfree site...

There are some points I'd like to clarify:

1. Charlie was born two days shy of 30 weeks, not 28. It may not seem to make a big difference, but it does. I promise it would if it were a kid you cared about in that isolette, if there are any kids you care about.  (Note that I am carefully avoiding making that assumption, for fear of giving insult where none is intended.)
2. I haven't said anything about his needing to be on "assisted ventilation for at least the next 30 days."  I don't even know what that might be, or how long he'd be on it if I could figure out what the fucking fuck it is.
3. Charlie is neither pear-sized nor pear-shaped. He is closer in weight to sixteen sticks of butter, minus a couple of tablespoons, and closer in mass to a supermarket rotisserie chicken.  Somebody check me here — maybe a canned ham instead? Now I am imagining my baby studded attractively with cloves, festooned with a pineapple slice, in accordance with the garish but helpful SERVING SUGGESTION printed right on the can. I got your modest proposal right here.
4. Hey, so, um, why exactly are you concerned with my reproductive efforts?
5. No, really, I mean it: why?  I haven't even had a chance to become a bad parent yet.
6. If you're happy and secure in your own reproductive choices, why are you wasting your time, your energy, and your valuable AOL minutes eavesdropping on infertiles?
7. Because we're not the problem.  I swear it.  The kid kicking the back of your first-class airline seat ain't mine, after all.
8. Oh, and "hysterical breeder wanna be" lacks pizzazz.  Next time please consider turkey-baster fucking, dumbfuck breeder cunt.  (You gotta admit it sings.)