CONTENT WARNING: Animal Abuse

My mother told me this story. She’s watching two of my younger brothers as they’re playing in the front yard. [Brother #1], who is around six years old, spies a struggling inchworm on the driveway. My mom notices him crouching down to look at it and goes to join him. The poor thing doesn’t look so good.

Brother #1: *Clearly distressed* “Is… Is he gonna be okay?”

Mom: “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Brother #1: “Okay. If you say so.”

Then, [Brother #2], who is about three years old, comes over to see what the fuss is about. He spots the inchworm and, to [Brother #1] and Mom’s horror, lifts his foot.

Brother #2: *Stomping on the inchworm* “DIE! DIE! DIE!”

It’s been more than ten years since this incident, and their relationship still has the exact same dynamic, though our mother did manage to train most of [Brother #2]’s destructive behavior out of him.

My sister lives clear across town, about thirty miles away. She calls me.

Sister: “My Internet is out. Can I use yours?”

Me: “Sure, just come on over.”

Sister: “I can’t just connect to yours from here?”

Me: “No.”

Sister: “Why not?”

Me: “That’s not how it works.”

Sister: “You just don’t want to share your Internet!”

I tried to explain but she, a grown woman, called our mother and complained that I “wasn’t sharing.”

Mother: “Are you serious, [Sister]? Take back anything I said about wanting you to give me grandkids. You’re too stupid to keep them alive.”

My brother and I inherited my grandfather’s farm, and while these days the farm isn’t big or modern enough to earn a living off of, it’s a beautiful part of the world. Since my brother and I both worked tech jobs that we could do remotely, get along well, and love the land, we decided to build houses on either end of the property with a workshop/garage in the middle. It’s worked great.

The downside of our setup is that we aren’t particularly close to town. So, if one of us goes into town for some reason, we ask the other if they need anything and often end up picking up some groceries or whatever else for each other. And since we both make decent money and it’s pretty even who goes into town, we’ve never kept track of the money. We just figure it will all come out in the wash.

My brother has been dating a great woman for a while and she recently moved in with him. Since they’ve gotten more serious, she’s decided they should be more organized, and her current project is getting their finances in order. One day, she asks me to come over for dinner. We eat, and then she says that my brother and I need to balance out who owes who what.

Me: “Sure, that makes sense. Well, I think the last trip was you picking up a load of groceries for me. That was probably about $100.”

Brother: “Sounds about right, but before that, you picked up the hardware for when I was fixing the plumbing. That was like $60, right?” 

Me: “Yeah, but I also picked up that Scotch for you on that trip.”

Brother: “Oh, yeah. So, now I owe you…”

This conversation goes back and forth as far as we can remember. By the end of things, the grand total we come up with is that I owe my brother $15. I pull out my wallet and pay him, and then I get up to leave to walk back home. 

Me: “Oh, by the way, I’m going to be in town tomorrow to see [Friend]. Need anything?” 

Brother: “Actually, yeah. Could you pick me up some [Beer]?” 

He then handed the $15 back to me. At that point, his girlfriend started laughing at how pointless the whole exchange had been.

My five-year-old sister is obsessed with Rapunzel (the Disney version from “Tangled”) right now. She wants to be Rapunzel when she grows up, so she refuses all haircuts and every so often sings to her hair.

My mother bought her a Rapunzel costume for a costume parade we had, and my sister was so excited about it. On the day of the parade, she told me this:

Sister: “You know what’s sad?”

Me: “What?”

Sister: “Mama said I have to wear socks and shoes. But Rapunzel has bare feet!”

She also got very disappointed when the long blonde braid didn’t glow with the magic song.

Today, we were singing the song “When Will My Life Begin” and we sang the line “…stuck in the same place I’ve always been.”

Sister: “But she wasn’t always there.”

Me: “That’s true, but she didn’t know that. She thought Mother Gothel was her real mother. She never learned about genetics, so she couldn’t tell it didn’t make sense.”

Sister: “What’s genetics?”

Me: “Well, a mother and father both give something to the baby. So, since Mama and Daddy both have brown hair, you can’t have blonde hair.”

Sister: “But Rapunzel had blonde hair.”

Me: “Well, yes, so maybe if Mama drank a magic flower when she was pregnant with you, you’d have magic hair. But she didn’t.”

Sister: *Very matter of fact* “I know. Sadly.”

At least she’s come to terms with the ending of the movie, though. When she first saw it, she cried when Rapunzel’s hair got cut and barely noticed that Flynn was dying. And through her tears, she asked me this:

Sister: “Is she crying for the same reason I am?”

I’ve been very open and adamant about not wanting children since I was in my single digits. It’s never been an interest of mine, and the more people insisted that I would change my mind as I got older, the louder I got about not wanting any kids.

Age eleven:

Dad: “You’ll see when you have kids.”

Me: “I don’t want children. You can’t make me have any.”

Dad: “That’s what I said, and now I have four of them. You’ll see.”

Age thirteen:

Me: “You can’t be serious.”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “You talk about how expensive kids are all the time and how broke we are, you complain about your wife not getting a job and how the house is a disaster because there are too many people crammed into a two-bedroom, and now you’re having another kid? Four wasn’t enough?”

Dad: “These things happen. You’ll see when you have kids of your own.”

Me: “Not a chance. I don’t want kids, and there were ways of preventing this. Where are you going to put a baby, anyway? There’s no more room in the house!”

Dad: “It’ll work itself out. You’ll need to figure out things like this when you have kids of your own.”

Age fifteen:

Dad: “So, your stepmom and I have news—”

Me: “Would you rather get condoms or have us pay for a vasectomy?”

Dad: “Oh, come on!”

Me: “Six kids! There are eight people living in this tiny two-bedroom, one-bathroom house.”

Dad: “Moving is expensive.”

Me: “And kids aren’t? You know what’s not expensive? Condoms! Use them!“

Dad: “I can’t wait until you have kids.”

Me: “Not happening. Ever.”

Age eighteen:

Dad: “I can’t believe you’re moving out. You’re still in high school! Where are you going to go?”

Me: “I’m moving in with [Best Friend] and her family until college starts, and then I’m going to live in the dorms. I’m eighteen; you can’t stop me. I’ll have my own room, and she and I will share a bathroom, and for the first time in my life, there won’t be screaming babies keeping me awake until after midnight.”

Dad: “Fine. I guess we need the space anyway. [Stepmom] is about three months pregnant…”

Me: “Are you f****** kidding me?”

Dad: “These things happen. You’ll see when you start having kids.”

Me: “I don’t want kids. I’ve never wanted kids. You have way too many. The illusion is broken. I’ve been changing diapers since I was four years old. I’ve had to share my tiny room with three of my siblings and fight over bathroom time. You’re always broke, tired, and messy, and you complain nonstop about how loud the kids are. You’re never home, and when you are, you just yell at us. I’ve had to give up my life to help raise my own siblings. I. Don’t. Want. Kids.”

Dad: “You’ll change your mind. I always said I didn’t want any, either, and now—”

Me: “And now you have seven and live in a house that is falling apart around you, and you have to work three jobs just to keep the lights on. Great life plan.”

Age twenty-one:

Dad: “So… anything you want to tell us? About… anything?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m gay. Still don’t want kids. Oh, and I’m moving to [City over 1,000 miles away].”

Dad: “But… No, no, it’s time you start thinking about kids.”

Me: “Thought about it. Not for me. I’m leaving next week.”

Dad: “Absolutely not. I forbid it! It’s time you settle down and give me some grandkids!”

Me: “Not a chance in h***.”

Age twenty-five:

Dad: “You’re getting married?”

Me: “Sure am!”

Dad: “Finally got knocked up, huh? I knew you’d have kids eventually.”

Me: “Uh… how exactly would [Wife] have knocked me up?”

Dad: “I don’t know. Figured you did IVF or something. Married people have kids. Oh, and speaking of, [New Wife] and I have something to tell you.”

Me: “You’re kidding.”

Dad: “Number nine will arrive around your birthday.”

And finally, at age thirty-one:

Dad: “You’re getting up there in age, you know. It’s time you start thinking about when you want to have kids.”

Me: “You know, I’ve been giving that a lot of thought lately.”

Dad: *Excitedly* “Yeah?”

Me: “Yeah. Kids aren’t for me. My hysterectomy is next week. Talk to your eight other kids if you want grandkids that badly because you’re not getting them from me.”

Dad and his new-new wife — marriage number five for him — then decided to adopt three more kids, bringing his number of children up to twelve. He doesn’t understand why his four grown kids are all child-free and insists that we’ll change our minds.