I don’t want grandchildren. I know, I’ll probably get my ass kicked by every woman with a wallet full of photos of Aiden (one of the 10 most popular names for boys: really people, get a grip) making mud pies. My resolve was reinforced yesterday, when I was put in charge of a two year-old boy for 15 minutes of hell.

We were in a public building, and Mom and Dad were busy filling out paperwork. They put me in charge of their sweet little bundle of attention deficit determination. Within seconds, I lost track of him and turned around just in time to see him pulling letters off the board that read, “Please keep children supervised at all times.”

I used every parenting trick I could remember to keep him from flinging himself down a grassy slope and into the duck pond. What does the bee say? What does the cow say? What is the square root of 139? (Trick question: it’s a prime number.) All the while, he trustingly took my hand and dragged me through bushes, up and down stairs, and into the men’s bathroom. The kid has a good grip.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good kid, and no more hyperactive than the average two year-old … who’s just consumed three candy bars and a double espresso. I have no illusion of my ability to catch him if he made a break for it. No problem. Lately, small children seem to be attracted to me like flies to poop. They have an innate ability to corner the only adult in a crowded room who doesn’t want to pick boogers off their noses.

I hesitate to even write this blog. Parents and grandparents get rather miffed if you’re not delighted with little “Aiden.” I still enjoy visiting my friends who are up to their herniated disks in grandchildren, but even if you rescued me from a burning building, don’t expect me to repay the favor by babysitting.

My daughters have been kind enough to let their biological clocks keep ticking. Even though there’s no longer any need to clean cloth diapers in boiling bleach, the only bottom I want to wipe is my own. Am I a bad person because I don’t want to be around little ankle biters? Just rescue me from a burning building and find out for yourselves.