A Kid Person

Recently, I have had to once again confront the fact that I am just not a "kid person."It started yesterday when I awoke at 7am to bone-piercing screams originating across the street from my apartment."MOMMY!!!! I WANT MOMMY!!!! WHERE IS MY MOMMY?!!!! I WANT MY MOMMY NOW!!!!!!" followed by a wail that went on so long that I actually started to believe they were skinning the kid over there.A new daycare facility for the children of ex-pats has just opened directly across the street so, for the past two days, I have been serenaded by the same "I WANT MOMMY!!!!" wake-up call in about 10 different accents and languages between 7-8AM. It is, to me, on par with torture.Normally, I might have a little more patience but I am still dealing with some serious jet-lag issues a week after returning home from the States so my sleep, and establishing a normal sleeping pattern, is particularly precious right now. Screaming children just DO NOT fit into that picture.Unfortunately, here in Africa, children are considered delightful beings from heaven so any outward criticism of them is strictly forbidden. When I tumbled out onto my balcony yesterday morning to confirm that the wailing child was not being killed, I was greeted by my Somali neighbor...whose own 2-year old has mercifully stopped teething over the past month leaving me in peace to read quietly on the balcony between 7-9PM again."Isn't that the most wonderful sound?" she asked. "Children are Allah's gift from heaven, I am so glad that we have these new neighbors, aren't you? It just lightens my heart to hear their 'sweet music' every morning!"I looked at her sideways through hooded eyes."Yes, wonderful...LOVE that 'sweet music'" I muttered before going inside to curse my existence.I have had the same issue with Robert, my driver, whose own children, for all intents and purposes, are very well-behaved. It's just that they are so excited to see the muzungu (white person) that they normally crawl all over me the minute they see me and try to poke my eyes out or pull my hair because it fascinates them.Robert had taken to bringing them (and his three nieces and nephews) to the airport every time he picked me up from a trip abroad as sort of a welcoming committee. After twenty hours on an airplane, the very LAST thing I wanted was to be gang-rushed upon emerging from the gate by six children under the age of nine who would proceed to scream, for the 45 minute drive home, "MUZUNGU!!! We LOVE the MUZUNGU!!! YAYYYYYYY!!!!!"Robert would laugh and clap, the children would get louder, and I would think hateful thoughts that bordered on murder.No, I am not proud of this but it's the truth.I think I get it from my mother, although my brother adores children so it might not be genetic.My mother has about the same level of tolerance for screaming children as I do...or less even.Many years ago, when she had to do her "voluntary time" at my brother's grade school as the school nurse for the day, she sent every single child home who came into the infirmary. Naturally, the kids caught on to this rather quickly and, after she sent about 20 kids home for the day, the school administrator finally caught up with her and asked her what she was doing."They came in screaming and sick so I sent them home, what's wrong with that?" she asked.Needless to say, my mother was forever exempted from "volunteer time" at my brother's school.When I was little, I keenly remember one, and only one, "sitting down and screaming," incident with my mother when we were at the library when I was about three or four years old. I decided to pitch a fit about something or another and proceeded to sit down in the children's book section and scream my bloody lungs out. My mother took one look at me, asked me to stop, and then walked out. I carried on until I realized that she really HAD left and then I became terrified. Of course, she had only gone outside but that particular event so traumatized me that I never, ever pulled that one again.Still, at the age of 34, I sometimes think I should really be wanting children by now. After all, my biological clock is ticking.When I get in these moods, I normally turn to my best friend, Connie, who has never had children of her own but took me on at the age of 19 when I was going through what could well be termed my "second childhood," to convey my feelings."Look, if, by some accident of the anti-Christ, you happen to get pregnant, just immediately surrender him or her to me, it'll be better that way..." she'll say."It's not that you are not a wonderful person and you do have one of the kindest hearts out there...but you are just not a 'kid person,' so, please, get a dog, OK?"If not Connie, I will turn to Scott with my momentary mothering instincts, usually after a glass or two of wine."Let's have babies!" I'll tell him. "Aren't you curious to see what our children would be like?"Scott, who has two grown children of his own (who are, from what I have gleaned, extremely well-behaved, probably because Scott and his ex-wife took a similar philosophy to my Mom when confronted with the "sit down and scream" routine), will indulge me, "Sure, Love, I am sure we would have beautiful children. Just as soon as I get back from war we can discuss it, OK?"Then I will start to feel all sorts of guilt about the fact that I am not "normal." That, in my mid-thirties, I should WANT kids, I should be PRAYING for them, right?But I am just not.Kids love me, however. That one always strikes me as strange.The same way cats have the uncanny ability to find the one person in a crowded room who is allergic to them...the same with me and kids.Put me and a dozen other adults in the room with one child, and you can be damn sure that kid will hone in on me.When I was still dating my friend Ed, I was constantly confronted with the propspect of a baby shower, a christening, or some other child-related event that we would have to dutifully attend.Several of Ed's siblings, being good Irish Catholics, seemed to consider producing offspring as a full-time job...like a mission...so this always put me in the uncomfortable spot of "hold the new baby" at any given gathering."We're going to C's house for the baby's christening party," Ed would randomly announce."Again? Didn't she just have the last litter a few week's ago?" I would ask."Be nice, dammit! That is my new niece you're talking about!" he'd scold."But don't you have three or four of them already?""They are children, not underwear, for Christ's sake! What is wrong with you? Are you Chinese now or something?" he'd admonish.Inevitably, when we got to the party, I was the first one to be handed the new baby."Look how precious she is! Isn't she amazingly beautiful?" I would be asked.Staring down into the crumbled red face of a newborn who was clearly, at that precise moment, being confronted with one of life's first big choices: To Scream or To Poop? I would think, "Yeah, babies are neat...but can someone please take her from me NOW?"I have admittedly gotten a lot better with kids living here in Africa because, for some odd reason, children here are so much better behaved than kids back in the U.S. If the daycare school across the street was occupied by African children, I am sure I would not be so put out in the mornings.African mothers (see above about my Somali neighbor) definitely seem to love their kids as much as American mothers...but African kids, by and large, are much better behaved. Even Robert's children, despite the whole muzungu routine, are much quieter and less prone to throwing tantrums. I don't see any difference in how these kids are punished, so it just doesn't seem to make sense.I talked to my dear friend, Kim, an African-American, about this once."It's because they are black children with black mothers and black people do not allow their children to act like assholes," she told me. "We don't go in for the whole 'time-out' nonsense and children are raised to respect their elders and the people around them from DAY ONE, no questions asked.""What about the way I was raised?" I asked her. "My mother isn't black but I knew better than to act out that way.""You're Italian and so is your mother...you might as well be black" she said.That makes me think, at times like these when I am lamenting the fact that I have reached my mid-thirties with no children, if I should reconsider...maybe it would be different for me?Sometimes I will call Scott and say, "Let's adopt an African baby! We both make enough money to give a child a loving home and there are so many kids here that need homes!""OK, Madonna-Angelina, we can consider that one too when I get back from Iraq. For now, why don't you just get a dog?" he'll say, patiently, "You are really good with animals..."I was in the midst of contemplating these things when I decided to call Robert last week to confirm that he would be picking me up at the airport when my flight arrived from Belgium."Oh, and Robert? You don't need to bring all the children along...I really appreciate it but my flight gets in late at night and, well, it's probably past their bedtime and all..." I tried."They love seeing you! They love picking you up at the airport! It is no trouble whatsoever!" he told me.Shit.I tried a different tactic."Robert, you shouldn't bring the children because I might have Swine Flu," I said."WHAT?" he asked me."Yes, I am coming from the U.S. and I might have contracted Swine Flu so let's not put the children at risk...we can visit another time."He was clearly perplexed and I felt bad about probably making something up but I didn't know any other way to convince him that I wanted a children-free ride home.Maybe I really am NOT a kid person after all...But you never know.