So there I sat, 11 years old in Mr. Smith’s musky classroom for another day of sixth grade in Health and Sexuality. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the 24-inch TV screen situated at the front of the room. My eyes simulated perfect saucers: wide, circular and disbelieving. It was awful. Blood spewing everywhere. Screaming. A woman’s shining face, twisted in pain, and the ugly tattooed man that did this to her hovering and chanting things that are supposed to help: “Come on, baby. Push. Push!”

This is the moment I blame: the crowning. The single camera frame, shot right between the legs at the crown of a head coming out of a place it will (for a damn good reason) never remember. And then out it squirts: a writhing, crying, slimy baby.

And this was the first vow I made to myself as a woman, vehemently, as flat-chested and pre-hormonal as I was: I am NOT doing that. Fuck. No.

I have heard it’s like taking your lower lip and pulling it up over your head. I am NOT pushing something the size of a pot roast through something the size of my nostril. This must be some kind of joke.

And never mind for a moment about the crowning. It’s not the crowning that terrifies me down to my very toes, nor the about the subsequent gnawing and spittle-ing that is sure to follow if the thing actually manages to slither out and not get stuck in there.

No, it’s what the crowning moment represents. It marks 18 years. 18 responsible-laden years, years soaked with worrying, runny noses, attitude problems, whining and teenage sex. “Hello,” the crown of the head says. “I hope you have enjoyed your life because its is no longer yours: its putty in the sticky hands of 3-year-old, curly-haired Aden.”

Aden, who now owns your life, believes finger-painting means dipping his hands into a can of fire-red Crayola paint much like you would with paraffin wax and running around with his arms and hands flailing, frantically trying to touch everything at the same time: white walls, the piano, the couches, the dog, your face.   (This happened.)

Aden, who now owns your life, pushes you into the kiddie pool and then tries to peek up your towel as your clothes are tumbling in the dryer. (Happened.)

Aden, who now owns your life, jolts up at the word “bedtime,” shimmies out of his onesies, screams bloody murder and runs circles around you, naked. (Getting scared?)

Hence, I do not want babies. Call me cold-hearted, call my bluff, say my maternity instinct is just a wee bit delayed, say I’ve just had some bad babysitting experiences. Whatever it is, I retain the same sentiment I did when I eleven and watching “The Miracle of Life” in sixth grade: I’m NOT doing that. Fuck. No.