Baby? Baby Not

Babymaking has become the topic de la semaine* among my blog buddies. I can honestly say that I do not want children. Not that I don’t like kids; quite the opposite. I think kids are fantastic, wonderful, adorable blessings. And I applaud any responsible, loving adults who undertake the daunting task of being parents. Although there are certainly some people who make an excellent case for forced sterilization (Tom, Britney, Courtney---I’m talking to you).

I have the (very) occasional maternal pang when I hold a baby or get a hug from a toddler. I have just the slightest bit of envy when I see a mother and child. But as others have noted, I am fully aware that raising a child is more than baby powder and butterfly kisses. It’s not all warm fuzzies. It’s stinky diapers and sleepless nights and temper tantrums and never knowing when you’ll next be able to wash your hair, never mind shaving your legs. It’s having to put a decent meal on the table three times a day and enduring endless viewings of a singing purple dinosaur and spending evenings schlepping to soccer practice and piano lessons or finishing the project that the teacher assigned two weeks ago but isn’t getting started until the night before it’s due.

And the simple truth is that I’m selfish. I don’t want to do those things. I have a hard enough time contemplating the compromises I’ll have to make should I ever get married. And any doubts about my ability to be selfless and patient have been put to rest by Rowen. The first few nights that I had her, she cried and thrashed all night. I was about ready for some nice men in white coats to take me to a quiet room with padded walls. I can’t even imagine the years of sleep deprivation that mothers go through. I get impatient and snap at her if I’m tired and she wants to play or if I’m late for work and she won’t go potty. I’m just lucky that she has limited English skills, a short memory, and a loving disposition. A cat would not put up with me. A child would be scarred for life.

I don’t want to spend 18 years or more making the tremendous sacrifices that my parents made for me. I don’t want to do it. Those brief warm fuzzies are powerless against my overwhelming selfishness. And maybe that makes me a bad person. But I think it would be even worse to deny the truth about myself and bring a child into the world in the hope that the child would fit into my life or that I would miraculously change. I do believe that God gives us the graces we need for whatever challenges we face. And should I ever become pregnant---intentionally or not---I hope and pray that I would love that child and do my best to raise him or her in a good, loving home.

But why put myself---and God---to the test? Why should I want to have a child? To satisfy my mother---who has been pining for grandchildren since I hit puberty? To meet some societal norm? To make myself more marriageable? I don’t feel any great void in my life because I don’t have kids. I don’t feel like I’m less of a woman or missing out on something. I worry a little about whether I’ll come to the end of my life and regret not having kids. But I also feel like if I do change my mind after it’s too late, I can become a foster parent, a Big Sister, a mentor . . . there are ways to have children in your life and to leave a legacy without giving birth---and without having to give up quiet nights at home, long showers, and sleep.
I don’t want children. Not because I’m a bad person (although I am) and not because I don’t like kids. I’m not in denial. I’m not “still too young to know” (which is possibly the most offensive rebuttal; I’m 29, I’m an adult, I know). I just don’t.

God bless those who do. And, hey, I’m always willing to babysit. For a couple of hours.



* Putting that B.A. in French to use. Finally. And probably incorrectly.