I Can’t Have Children—But I Don’t Want to Anyway
Image description: a bright outdoor closeup of Jacqueline Raposo - a white Azorean American woman wearing aviator sunglasses and a black and white sweater. She has a baby tucked into a carrier in front of her, wearing a pink and white striped hat, and her terrier Mitra is close in the frame to her face. Behind them is grass leading to a bay with boats docked. 2015.
I could blame it on my medical issues, but the truth is that I never wanted children.
for Cosmopolitan
I don't know which came first, honestly: knowing that I don't want children or being told that I probably can't have them.
I first came down with Lyme disease when I was 12. I was treated again for it in college and still struggle with some trying medical issues to this day. While all signs suggest I can conceive, I've been given no promise that a pregnancy would go full term, or that my body wouldn't be wrecked beyond repair if it did. On top of that, there's a hot debate as to whether or not Lyme can be transferred from infected mothers to their fetuses. At the very least, my life would have to alter dramatically, since it already takes so much work to keep my body calm, happy, and in as little pain as possible. In a way, my body is the child I need to tend.
That's not the point though.
My health aside, I've never had dreams of a family. The only inkling of curiosity I can remember from childhood is the idea that adoption might be something I would consider one day. After college, I taught for many years at early learning centers, babysat and nannied, and if I had a dollar for every time I've heard that I'd make a great mother, I would have far fancier shoes in my closet. I look forward to nieces and nephews playing at my feet, and I'm always at the ready to snuggle or feed or change the diaper of any nearby little one. But my own? When I gaze out my window and daydream about my future, I don't see any there.
I see a partner, and a safe and rustic home where we can grow things and I can write. I see maybe another dog to add to the one I have, and a commute to New York City that's easy enough for when an assignment brings me back. I see the freedom to hang my hat where I choose, that being a visit to one of my siblings, tending to a parent or good friend in their time of need, or even a faraway location for that future man and I run to on a random Tuesday when the wind calls us.
Until that future manifests, I like the life I have right now. I have only myself to take care of, and so I need very little. As a freelance writer, I can take fewer jobs than others and still afford an apartment, a dog, a car, a Metrocard, and enough cash to go out to dinners and shows and museums. I can choose work that I really want to do, rather than being under pressure to provide for another. I know that my home is a quiet place for me to write, or cook, or read, or have grownups over for cocktails. My choices are limitless.
I'm 34 years old. And I'm 100 percent sure that I don't want children.
I'm so sure, that I've talked to my gynecologist about "getting fixed." I haven't yet found a way to do so that's foolproof, safe, and affordable, but I'm patient. When I date, I'm upfront and honest about this with men, and a guy who's already had a vasectomy is infinitely more attractive in my book. Because here's the rub: I'm petrified of getting pregnant. Any changes to my body frighten me, since it already goes through so much. When I'm sexually active, I writhe internally until my period comes, no matter how beyond-safe the sex was. Getting pregnant would be the end of a world I very much love the way it is, in sickness and in health.
I've started collecting friends who also don't want kids, and we cling together in our life choice, free to converse without judgment. We're not selfish people, as is often decided of us. And the ability to be a good parent doesn't translate into a calling from the divine or something. Are there joys I'll be missing out on? Of course! But I'm choosing to miss out on them. I'm choosing to be childless woman, with my dog at my feet, sipping my tea, and reveling in the sound of my quiet home, daydreaming about the stretch of open days ahead of me.
