Jaw Cleanup on Aisle 5

Just yesterday, my dear sweet mother said the awesomest thing EVER to me.

Well, actually, that's a lie. Everyone knows the most awesome thing their mothers could ever say to them is this:

"Sweetie, I have something very important to tell you. Your [insert obscure relative] wasn't fully human after all -- they're actually part [insert insanely awesome mutant/alien species/magical creature], and it turns out that [insert ridiculously cool supernatural ability] was passed on to you when you were born. Here's a fantastic spandex costume I've made you. Go have fun fighting crime and saving the world -- but be home in time for supper!"

Clearly, nothing could ever top that level of awesome. However, what my mom said to me yesterday may just come in at a close second.

First, a little background on my mother -- she has always loved kids, especially babies. And she's always made it clear that she would love to have grandkids.

Fortunately, she isn't one of those entitled, shrill harpy-types who insist that I produce fruit from my loins for her gratification or risk being summarily excommunicated from the family. So I've got that going for me.

But occasionally, I do feel twangs of remorse knowing that she'll never be a grandmother -- unless my brother has a condom mishap -- because I suspect she'd be one of those cool grandmas that let you get away with stuff you're not supposed to do, then send you back home with your parents none the wiser (wait, isn't that basically all grandparents?).

I let these little twangs of regret pass, watching them float through my mind like tiny, rattle-shaped wisps of cloud, before the sensible part of my brain quips, "Yeah, you're going to put yourself through 18+ years of filth, noise, exhaustion, worry and constant self-doubt just so your mom can have something small and human to cuddle -- for a very limited time -- on your monthly visits home. Suuuuuure."

The sensible part of my brain speaks only in Sarcasm. That's how I tell it apart from all the other voices.

Anyway. So I was in the local Gigantomarket with mom, and there arose from somewhere behind us that familiar ear-piercing, facial-twitch-inducing sound I'm sure you've all become seasoned connoisseurs of: the screamin' baby. Luckily, we were at that point navigating our Wobble Cart of Doom toward the exit, and I had high hopes of escaping before the headache imps could burrow their way into my auditory cortices and start jackhammering my delicate nerve endings. Then, IT happened.

My mother turned to me and said, "You know, every time I hear a baby crying like that anymore I think, 'Thank God I don't have grandkids!'"

The moments immediately following this revelation are still a bit blurry in my mind, but I'm pretty sure at least 5 store attendants were forced to do creative things with the spatulas and paint scrapers they sell for low, low prices in order to separate my jaw from the freshly-buffed floor.

Or maybe I made that part up. Like I said, it's a little fuzzy.

After presumably re-hinging my mandible, I asked her to repeat herself. And yes, she really WAS thanking a higher power that grandchildren had not been inflected upon her.

My sense of triumph in that moment was so palpable that, against all odds and laws of genetics, a Snidely Whiplash-esque handlebar mustache sprouted fully-formed from my face, which I then twirled in one finger as I laughed maniacally and replied, "AHA! I knew it! My powers of persuasion are unstoppable!"

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I just made that part up, too.

But still. It was amazing. This woman who had been dropping subtle hints (read: impromptu tours of sperm donation clinics) for years about her desire for grandsprogs, suddenly does a Heel Face Turn and says, "Y'know what, those things are really loud and annoying -- what a relief I don't have to put up with them anymore!"

And it makes me wonder -- are there any "10-100 Reasons I'm Glad I'm Not a Grandparent" lists out there? Perhaps written by an older generation of childfree pioneers from their comfortable and quiet retirement homes, inspired by friends and acquaintances stuck raising toddlers at age 65 while their own children languish in prison from a diverse array of drug charges?

There have to be lists like that out there. I mean, c'mon, this is the Internet. But until I find such lists, I think it's safe to say that, like fine wine or Sean Connery, the childfree life just gets better with age!