This is going to sound more morose or just plain sad than I mean it to. I just wanted to prepare you and also lay the groundwork for my explaining that it isn't really all that bad. I hope you're ready.
I meant to have a lot of kids. Well, I meant to have at least two kids.
Really, I'm not joking. I wanted kids. I remember reading an issue of Popular Science when I was a kid, and they used to have (maybe still do... do they still make Popular Science?) this section where they shared a blueprint for a home. I remember finding this blueprint for home in one issue back in the late 70s or early 80s that I thought was way cool. I imagined living there with my family, which would include two kids named (don't judge) Linus and Lucy. I mean, because how cool would it be to name your kids after Peanuts characters, right?
Shut up. I was young.
Anyway, I meant to have kids. There were obviously a whole lot of issues with my knowing myself.
Maybe not the most important contributing factor, but a major one is this: I can't stand humans much. I mean, I love them and all, but... enough to get in a romantic relationship with one? Nuh-uh. No thanks. I have a hard enough time with my non-romantic relationships. I can't imagine how badly I'd screw up a romantic one. And at forty-four, I'm not all that interested in finding out.
So for those of you with kids, who are frustrated or irritated or just wishing you'd never had them (even if you're only in the middle of a few minutes of wishing it): I think it's better to have them and occasionally wish you didn't than to have wanted them and never got them.
Of course I just jinxed myself. I'm somehow going to end up with ten kids now, and be raising them until I'm well into my 70s.