Grow up.

Recently, a friend told me that she hates kids. Many years ago, she made a commitment to a “childfree” existence, and had a tubal ligation to seal the deal. I support her lifestyle decision, though it’s probably not for me. I talk all the time about how much I hate kids, because nine times out of ten they are snotty little brats that could benefit from one or two good rounds with a boxing kangaroo, but I know that someday I will want to be a mother. Just not anytime soon.

The following interactions with children all took place today. One day and I counted nine separate occasions in which I made a mental note to Google “childfree” as soon as I got home.

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I passed two twelve-year-old boys on the street today, and as they approached me, I overheard the following conversation:

“…and I hate it when they all come visit, because they always refer to us as children.”

“Oh, I know, it’s so annoying.”

“I mean, seriously. We’re not children. We’re pre-teens.”

I let out an indelicate snort before I could stop myself, and the two boys looked at me, scathed. Kids.

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Standing in line at Subway, I saw a little boy ahead of me, no more than seven years old. He was bored and twitchy, because some idiot manager had scheduled the girl behind the counter to be working alone at 1:00 on a Saturday afternoon, and the line was long. The boy hopped from one foot to the other, tried to use a straw and some ketchup to draw pictures on the wall, and pushed me aside to examine the inner workings of the trash can lid. In addition to thinking he was an annoying little twit, I suspected his mother wasn’t going to make him wash his hands before he ate lunch, and that made me queasy.

When they finally got their turn with the overworked sandwich girl, the mother began to order for the boy.

“Hey!” the boy suddenly yelled at the sandwich girl. “I want a drink!”

The mother and the girl ignored him. Uh oh, I thought. This can’t end well.

“I want a DRINK!”

The girl looked at the bratty kid, then looked at the mother. The mother continued to place the sandwich order, then looked down at the boy to ask him if he wanted turkey or ham on his sandwich.

“I WANNA DRINK.” The mother ignored this and asked the girl for turkey. What the hell was the matter with this kid? Did he just get back from Namibia?

Looking almost afraid to hear the answer, the sandwich girl asked if the boy wanted lettuce. “I WANT A...NNNRRRGGGGHHHH!” The boy had suddenly abandoned words altogether and opted for a tantrum where he just looked desperately constipated.

“Wow. That’s a thirsty kid,” the sandwich girl said hilariously.

When the mother assured the brat that he would, indeed, be getting a drink if he would just shut the hell up for one minute, the boy looked around, bored again. He turned around and looked at me. Telepathically, I told him that his drink was going to be poisoned when he finally got it, and I raised an eyebrow at him. The kid might have had a bit of the Shining, because he slowly backed away from me, terrified. I considered trying to trip him, but there were too many witnesses. After the kid got his blessed drink cup, he ran over to the soda fountain and began pressing buttons in a way that was sure to end in a sticky disaster, but it was my turn to order, so I put him from my mind.

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Later, while I was eating my lunch at the same Subway, a young mother walked in with her two daughters. I guessed the daughters’ ages to be about three and eight years. They shuffled over to the table next to me and set down their coats. Suddenly, seemingly unprovoked, the three-year-old started to scream. I always thought that the phrase “screaming bloody murder” referred to how a person would scream if she were either the victim of, or the witness to, a homicide. It doesn’t. It actually refers to people around the screamer, and the sudden impulse you get when a child’s nagging, grating scream makes you want to reach over, tear out their vocal cords, and tie them around the child's neck like a bloody bow tie.

After a minute or so (God help me, I’m going to kill this child and go to jail before my 25th birthday), the mother quieted the young girl and instructed the eight-year-old to stay with the coats while she took her sister to get the sandwiches. Big Sister obeyed, and the mother disappeared with Little Sister in tow.

Big Sister stood by the table and looked around. She began to straighten each chair and fold the coats into neat little bundles. I had to admit, she was pretty cute, with her long brown hair pulled into a neat barrette. When each chair had its own coat-bundle, she sat down and looked around quietly. I was scribbling notes into my daytimer, and I could see her looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she looking at me, this smartly dressed young woman writing something important in her very official-looking calendar, and wondering if that’s what she would be like when she grew up? I met her eyes and smiled at her, and she shyly smiled back before casting her big brown eyes downward. That’s it. I’m totally having a girl.

Just then, three-year-old Little Sister wandered back to the table alone, apparently appeased with a bag of chips. I think Mom probably threw a bag of Doritos at the kid and caught the next flight to Bermuda to get away from her screaming monster-child. Big Sister kindly welcomed Little Sister back to the table, and showed the appropriate enthusiasm about the chips. The two girls sat in silence for a little while, and then, glancing longingly at her sister’s chips, Big Sis asked quietly, “Can I have one?”

Lil’ Sis shook her head and hid the chips under the table.

“Just one?”

Lil’ Sis shook her head again.

The two girls were quiet for a while, and the three-year-old continued to shove Doritos into her mouth. Her face was now mostly orange. She looked over at me and caught my eye. This distracted her just long enough for Big Sis to sneak a Dorito from the bag. Lil’ Sister’s head whipped around and she—you guessed it—started to scream. Meanwhile, Mom was ordering another Mai Tai from the cabana boy who was waiting on her in Bermuda.

“Okay, okay!” Big Sis apologized about the chip, and Lil’ Sis glared at her. Silence.

A minute later, Big Sis tried for a chip again, and stuck her hand in the bag. But this time, Lil’ Sis noticed in time, and clamped down on the bag, trapping her sister’s hand. Then she did that thing kids do, where she screamed hard in her throat without ever opening her mouth. This kid had mad screaming skillz. The two girls were locked in a bit of a chip-frenzy, and the pitch of Lil’ Sister’s scream was starting to go up. Every patron in the Subway was looking at them. People outside looked around for an air raid. Dogs winced. Birds dropped out of the sky.

It was time for me to go. So much for wanting a girl.