Last week, I was at my new accountant’s office to do my taxes for the first time in two years (oops). Before meeting with him, I had to answer some basic questions with the admin. assistant so that she could get my paperwork started.



Social Insurance Number.

“Marital status?”

“Single (and loving it).”

SIDENOTE: For the record, I didn’t say that last bit. I would have somehow implied it with a wink or some weird facial expression, as is my tendency, but she wasn’t paying any attention to me.

“And do you have kids?”


Which translated into:


She didn’t bat an eye. She just typed in whatever and moved on.

It’s funny, I have a lot of friends around my age who seem to be constantly tortured by friends and family about whether they’re married yet, when they’re going to have children, etc. I’ve never gotten much of that – aside from my crazy maternal grandmother, who used to check with me like, weekly if I had a boyfriend yet or not. I’m not even going to go there, but I think she thinks I’m like, broken or gay or something by this point.

Anyway, in the last month or so, I’ve been asked twice if I have kids. And my immediate response is shock. Like, me? Why would I have kids? Of course I don’t have kids!* I don’t even do my taxes on time! I can’t seem to find a day in the week to dye my hair or shave my legs most of the time. Why would I have kids?!

SIDENOTE: I have dogs who are like my kids!

And then I stop and realize, wait a second, I’m an adult. I could very well have kids.

I could have a handful of kids!

What has this taught me?

(A) I am, in fact, a grown ass woman.

(B) I may never feel like a grown ass woman.

(C) It’s maybe a good thing I don’t have kids.

(D) I need to get my shit together.

(E) I need to dye my roots. Like really badly.


*A hilarious 180 from where I used to stand on the whole children thing.

See also:

Thirty Six.

Forty Five.

One Hundred Eleven.

Oh boy…..