Choosing the Child-free Life

Real talk: Whenever someone I know tells me they’re expecting a baby, there’s a tiny reflex in me that wants to offer my condolences (which I would never actually do; I’m not that monstrous). But I have told overwhelmed prospective parent friends that it’s okay to mourn a little bit for the life they used to have since I know that so much changes, and having different feelings about it are totally valid and normal. At least, that’s what I’d want someone to say to me.

The concept of not having children is, obviously, not new. Ironically, some of the most famous women in modern history were/are—intentionally or not—child-free, including the great Julia Child, writers Beatrix Potter and Margaret Wise Brown (authors of two of the most gifted baby books of all time, Peter Rabbit and Goodnight Moon), Oprah Winfrey, and Dolly Parton.

It wasn’t until I was twenty-two that I realized I had the option of not having a child. That realization was so liberating that it scared me, and I want to state how fortunate I am to make that decision, especially when rights surrounding this issue are more precarious than ever.

I admire kids for their total honesty about their feelings and thoughts. I find some of what they say amusing. But they’re not for me. I’ve never had the urge to be a parent the way others in my life have. If there were any lingering doubts, they were quashed when I realized that I always grinned or cooed when I saw a dog but rarely, if ever, smiled at a small child or baby.

So, I’m happily child-free. I don’t call myself “childless” because, to me, the term implies something lacking or something that I don’t have but want or should want. I call myself child-free the way someone might call themselves nondairy or a nonsmoker. It’s merely a fact about someone.

I’ve been with the same partner for fourteen years, since I was eighteen, and to whom I am married. We realized at more or less the same time that we didn’t want children, and it did nothing but bolster our relationship and make us excited about whatever future we’d have together.

This doesn’t mean I don’t feel for folks who want children but cannot have them for whatever reason or empathize with struggles to conceive or adopt. I can’t imagine the pain endured on parenthood journeys like that. But I also shouldn’t have to say that just so someone doesn’t think I’m anti-child or selfish, the latter of which I actually see nothing wrong with. Your life is your life! Being selfish when it comes to how you spend your life is different from being self-centred.

A big assumption society makes once you reach a certain age and have a partner is that you must have a kid or just haven’t had one yet. I have been wished “Happy Mother’s Day” by strangers. I have gotten automated emails from my dentist urging me to book my child’s next cleaning appointment. When I hear the words “growing families” or “those starting families” I cringe. It feels othering, like my partner isn’t my family, when I considered him as such long before we married. As far as I was concerned, the addition of our dog completed our family.

I wasn’t asked about the subject much at that time. My mom died of cancer in her early forties. I liked to think people assumed the reason I didn’t have kids was fear of leaving them motherless at a young age (as myself and my sister were, at ages nine and six, respectively). There was a period when I worried about disappointing my family by not having them, whose opinions I cared a lot more about back then. But we couldn’t avoid it indefinitely. I’d hear, “How about a grandchild?” in response to my gushing about the puppy we wanted, and as a result of such comments, I would get anxious about family gatherings. We were ready for a permanent fix.

My partner and I decided that we would bypass all the inevitable drudge of me trying to get a tubal ligation—it can be notoriously difficult to obtain one, especially if you’re under a certain age—by him getting a vasectomy (the procurement of which was not complex at all). Though we didn’t have to, we told our families about it specifically to stop any more uncomfortable conversations.

Reactions were mixed. One family member said nothing and walked out of the room, while another surprised us by saying she didn’t know if she’d have kids if she could go back in time and do it all over again. I loved that transparency.

Older relatives pleaded with us (though to their credit, only once) to reconsider. They said they wanted a baby running around. We’d change our minds. Wait another year. Again, it was about what everyone else wanted from us instead of what we wanted for ourselves.

A relative of mine said, “What if you two break up and his new wife wants to have kids?” which asked me to consider the feelings of an imaginary person and was, I thought, completely ridiculous. In that same conversation, I was asked, “Do you not care about carrying on the family name?” Had tradition been followed, it wouldn’t have happened anyway had I taken my partner’s name upon getting married (which I did not).

I also had a well-meaning cousin reach out to warn me that the women in our family were prone to early ovarian failure, that I shouldn’t rule out kids because they had totally fulfilled her life, and that if I did decide to have them, it should be soon. It was good information, but it didn’t change our decision.

A typical response to saying you don’t want kids is: “Who will remember you when you’re gone?” I would argue that, excepting a small percentage of historical and culturally relevant figures, we’re all forgotten eventually. On the rare occasion I find myself in a graveyard, I like to look at some of the names on the headstones and give those people a thought. Some of the ones from the 1800s interest me the most simply because there likely isn’t anyone alive today who knew them or has thought about them for a long time.

The whole argument about having children as a form of insurance that will “take care of you in your old age” is, I find, a weak argument. It is not a compelling enough reason to have them, as that incentive is both self-serving and unrealistic. There are so many variables and uncertainties (a lot of them financial) to think that anyone can be wholly relied on to care for anyone these days. However, lots of people do, and I applaud them for it. And while I’m sure this all sounds very decadent to folks who have kids or are full-time caregivers, it isn’t a privilege I take for granted.

I love my life. I’m living the best life I can in my mom’s memory, and I don’t speculate about her possible wishes. If we are lucky—and I consider myself very lucky—we’ll get to choose what we want to do with our lives and how (if at all) we want to contribute to the future. I’d rather spend my time being happy than trying to please anyone else.