I Don't Want Kids

The sun drenched me with warmth as I rocked back and forth in the rigid swing. With each movement, the whole rickety build moaned and shreaked, making me tighten my ears. My rotund baby cousin clutched my thighs to keep from toppling from my lap and he gleefully bubbled and cooed at the motion of the swing. Back and forth I rocked. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I was trapped into rocking, for whenever I ceased, John Paul would shreak with just as harsh a tone as the swings, pounding his fists on me and saying "swing, swing, swing," in his sloshed words until I would finally bend and rock once more.
Sighing a worn and miserable sigh, I turned my vision to more of my cousins. They were older and darting across the lawn in an improvised game of tag. I was intrigued at how every single time someone got tagged, they would immediately accuse the enemy of cheating. Or they would just whine "but I hurt my ankle" or "but I'm a girl" or "but you can run faster than me" and at last conclude that it just wasn't fair. To be honest, I'd have rather been a referee to this bizarre game then rock John Paul on the unhappy swings.
Oklahoma's pale sun slunk below the horizon and I was still rocking. High-pitched mosquitoes twittered around me, searching for my blood. John Paul seemed to be amused by them, as well as immune. Finally I bit my lip in attempt to gather courage and plopped my cousin off of my lap. He screamed and kicked in rage, but I simply stood and walked away. Shortly, he gave up, huffed, and toddled after me, placing his chubby little paw in my hand. As we crossed the dark yard, I couldn't help but wonder how my aunt and uncle did it. How did they take care of this one crazy baby, let alone another two wild children? I decided then that I didn't want any kids.