To bebby or not to bebby

So after my latest pregnancy scare I have been giving the subject much thought.

OK, there was no pregnancy scare, but some naughty Twitter folk managed to scare the crap out of me by merely connecting me with the word “pregnant”. They gave me the willies, but I certainly will not be going near any willies any time soon I can tell you. Ahem. 

All because I happen to have an appetite that is off the charts. But it has always been that way. It is not my fault. The worms need constant nourishment.

The weird thing is, the night before the “scare”, I had been lying in bed thinking about having kids. My reaction to the idea varies from blind panic to what the hell, everyone else manages, surely I can too? Sometimes I even think the little critters are cute and want one of my own.

But that night what I felt was a cold creeping terror. I honestly felt that if I had a kidlet, the chances are it would die. I would not be able to keep it alive. I mean, I have never even managed to keep a houseplant alive, and I am supposedly a Plant Scientist.

I am clumsy and careless. I lose things and drop things. I doubt I am capable of caring for another being. I feel like I have the mentality of a twelve year old. I am selfish and self absorbed. I don’t behave like a responsible adult. And there are mental illnesses lurking in my bloodlines.

Also I have this innate fear that everyone I love is going to die on me. I often think about my loved ones dying, probably in a slightly unhealthy way. I should  address this issue at some point.

Perhaps a hamster would be a safer idea. I have successfully kept two hamsters alive, although one did have to have her foot amputated and had a run-in with a bird of prey… I never said how long  I kept them alive for, please note.

So ja. Everybody else is doing it. The bebby-making thing. Surely it is not that hard?

It is just that sometimes I think that there are certain genetic lines which are not meant to be perpetuated, you know?