Sometimes I start a sentence with “when I have kids” and then quickly change it to “if I have kids.” If I have kids, I will sign them up for ice skating lessons, piano lessons, and fencing lessons when they are toddlers so that they will never wish they started earlier. If I have kids, I will take them on roller coasters as soon as they meet the height requirement so they will adjust to that horrific plunging feeling. The kids in these situations are aspirational. But unlike the fact that I do want to graduate from college, find a job, and get married, along with other aspirations, I do not want kids. I explicitly do not want to be a mother. So there is no reason for me to bother with the difference between “when” and “if.”

I used to think that something was wrong with me. I have never found babies “cute.” I prefer dogs and cats and other “fur babies” to the real thing. I have no desire to hold a baby. Something about a tiny human who is entirely reliant on others to survive is daunting to me. Both in the way that home economics classes in pop culture (see Ned’s Declassified School Survival Guide season 1 episode 2) force fake baby toys on students to symbolize the greater responsibility of adulthood and in the sense that I’m not sure I could care about a baby (as in, love it unconditionally) enough to be put in charge of it. Perhaps it’s no surprise then that I’ve never been “great” with kids. Little kids and I are awkward around each other. Babysitting is my worst nightmare. When I was coerced into assistant teaching a baby ballet class at my dance studio in high school, I never knew how to treat the toddlers. When was I supposed to act like they were mini-adults, and when was I to patronize them? I dreaded taking them to the bathroom and was confused when they wanted more from me, to sit in my lap or hold my hand. I did grow fond of some of them, and some amused me with their personalities, coming up to me and matter-of-factly proclaiming, “I’m prettier than you,” for instance. But caretaker still felt like an unnatural role I was not meant to play.

I have always felt like I lacked a certain innate maternal extinct and that it goes against my nature of “being a woman” not to want to have kids. My own mother has tried to reassure me by telling me that she was not a great babysitter at my age either. I can acknowledge that I’m still young. Not young enough to fear becoming a teen mom anymore but young enough for the concept of marriage to stand far ahead in my future. Still, when I see people three, four, and five years older than I am sporting their newborns on social media, I can’t help but gasp inwardly and lament that they are too young to be parents, just like I will be at their age. Very soon, that will no longer be true. We are “supposed” to start families in our twenties. Maybe I will feel differently when I’m “older,” but I think it’s unlikely.

Giving life to a child is the one decision I know I cannot take back or undo. If I ever have kids, I want to be one hundred percent sure I want them. However, I have a feeling I will also always be waiting until I am “ready” or for the “right time”: in other words, places in space and time that don’t really exist. Nothing, not even reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” can make someone completely ready to have kids. And in terms of the “right time,” it is always easier to find an excuse not to do something than to do it. I also have a fantasy fueled by my internalized misogyny that once I meet the “right person,” being with them will make me want to have kids so that we can raise them together. So perhaps my reasoning is flawed on this point: I will always have some semblance of doubt in my mind or some ideal of unattainable perfection. Many people do when it comes to such a big decision. It’s definitely possible that I’m just using the notion that I have to be completely, fully, absolutely sure as a cover.

There is a myriad of practical reasons for not having kids. Overpopulation, for example, could someday become a problem. I have to help maintain the average by having zero kids, especially when there are outliers like Octomom out there trying to skew the data. But nobody is expecting me to have eight children. I could very well just have one. But then again, having just one is almost worse. I would hate to be the one who made my kid an only child and deprived them of having siblings, something I believe is essential to the growth and development of offspring. Another argument is that it is irresponsible to bring a child into a world that can sometimes feel like it’s ending. We’re in the midst of a pandemic with no concrete “end” in sight. The climate clock in New York is counting down and has given us less than eight years to take action before reaching a point of no return. At the risk of getting into dramatically cynical territory, countless other social problems would make the world that much harder for a kid to grow up in.

I do have one pretty selfish reason. As someone statistically in the “prime of their youth,” I can’t imagine willingly ruining my physical body to the point where it is never the same again just to have kids. For me, a brand new baby that I don’t even find adorable and now have to spend every waking hour keeping alive is not worth the ordeal. I’ve heard it before, that it will be different when it’s my own baby that came from my own body. But what if it’s not? What if I hold my own kid in my arms and there is no feeling of absolute love and connection? Seems like kind of a big risk I’d be taking. I am aware that I am obviously hyperbolizing the situation but the sentiment is there. 

Childbirth is one of, if not the, most painful experiences a human can have. It can last hours. I will not get into the gross, nitty-gritty details that can arise from the list of seemingly endless complications during the actual event. I will also not mention the practically guaranteed side effects that can last for weeks to years afterward. Even pregnancy, the entire nine or more months before the due date, is full of various inconveniences that can range in severity from stretch marks to mandatory bedrest. Childbirth can be fatal. It has also come a long way from the incredibly high mortality rates associated with it in the 20th century. I acknowledge that it is the miracle of life; I simply don’t feel the need to experience it for myself. If the prospect of childbirth was the only thing stopping me, the logical option would be to consider adoption or having a surrogate pregnancy. These, however, come with their own set of psychological, moral, and means-based issues.

I don’t view not having kids as some feminist power move. It’s true that I do want a career– although what exactly that will entail is still yet to be decided. But honestly, every other part about being a stay-at-home mom besides the whole kids part actually sounds appealing to me in a quaint, domestic kind of way. There is one thing that does nag me, though, and that I’ve heard a lot: who’s going to take care of me when I’m older? I don’t know. But again, is this one thing worth going against all my other feelings? Is that reason enough to have the kids? What if I have them, and then they don’t even want to take care of me? I am “never saying never,” but I am saying no for right now.

Emma Kendall can be reached at erkendall@wesleyan.edu.