I lounged tipsily in my padded seat. “That,” I said with gravity, turning to my companions and gesturing to the table of sugar- and caffeine-high youngsters and their attentive escorts, “is one reason we are not having children.” A moment of silence greeted my statement. Finally, René broke the suspense. “Jim and I don’t plan to have children, either,” she confessed, as Jim nodded emphatically. With sighs of relief, we nestled into our chairs, beamed at each other, and ordered another round of drinks—celebrating what we all knew to be the beginning of a long friendship.
I realize that to many people outside this group of newly-found intimates, René and my comments may have sounded uncaring, or even anti-family. “Do they hate children?” they may wonder. “How old are they? Aren’t they married? Are they gay? Can’t they have children?” It’s not too hard for me to imagine these questions, as the majority of them, however personal they may seem, have been directed to me at one time or another in the three or four years since Eddie and I have decided not to have children. Even now, I struggle to explain our choice when interrogated by a well-meaning friend or acquaintance regarding our nontraditional lifestyle. At times I feel temporarily guilty. Why am I rejecting the usual path that couples in our culture take? Occasionally I can’t help but feel that I’m not holding up my end of things in some way, as if I’m letting down “the system.” And, indeed, this feeling of fertility failure is reiterated every year on April 15th, when my husband and I pay the penalty for having two incomes and zero dependents. The IRS, at least, does not sanction our living arrangement.
Until Eddie and I made the decision not to have children, I never knew I’d have to explain our choice. Once the decision was made, however, I suddenly found that there’s an unspoken, but strong, expectation in our society that married couples have children. Sometimes when we tell people that we’re not having kids, they look at us suspiciously. Often, they will launch into an ode to childbearing—interpreting our decision as a judgment on theirs. At times, I consider taking the moral high ground and am tempted to tell people that our non-child decision is based on our belief in zero population growth, the uncertainty of the world, and our desire not to add more people to the problems of the future. I imagine these to be the reasons childless couples in more highbrow circles use, and they’re compelling, but they are not at the top of our list—nor on the lists of our similarly childless friends. Instead, a simpler philosophy, supplied by my grandmother, seems to apply: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Eddie and I have developed a home life that we like and don’t desire to change it by adding a new member to the family. “It’s a positive form of selfishness,” I tell people. We’re comfortable with the people we are right now, and we’re confident that we can spend the rest of our lives invested in self- and mutual-discovery.
Looking back on it now, I realize that there are some early signs of my eventual decision to remain childless. When I was a child, my friend, Annie, told me she was going to have 12 children. Chrissy said that she was only having five. I was a bit vague on the whole child thing. I never had a number, and I could never commit to the idea that my few dolls were “babies.” I was never a tomboy, but I was more interested in books or imagining the house my friends and I would build if we ran away than babies or playing house. While my best friend and I agreed when we were six that we would get married when we were 10 and “old enough,” he and I both had the general feeling that this would not change our living situations. I didn’t see the picket fence, the dog in the yard, and the 2.3 (or 12 or 5) children; only the husband seemed plausible—and then, only if he’d live with my mom and me. This wasn’t a constant, of course. While in college I specifically declared that I would never have kids, over the years I began to consider the possibility of children--if only by not considering NOT having them.
When I talk to the married and childless women friends I currently have, there’s not a lot of consensus as to whether or not we knew from an early age that we wouldn’t have children. Denise says that she had her names picked out for her four children—two boys and two girls—by the time she was eleven. Justine, on the other hand, explains, “It’s always been my goal to get through life without changing a single dirty diaper.” Regardless of original intent, most of my childless friends didn’t make the decision to remain childfree at the beginning of their marriages or partnerships. It was a process, as was the case with Eddie and me. “When we’re parents…” quietly changed to “If we have kids…” to be replaced by “If we have a child…” until we finally found ourselves sitting at the dinner table one night, struggling to come up with good reasons to have kids. That we should even be engaging in such an activity seemed to be answer enough.
Eddie and my decision to delay—and then forgo—adding children to the family arrangement was originally based on finance, and this is true of many of my childless friends. Most of us have been through college, and many have advanced degrees—a process that accompanies living in substandard housing, eating Ramen noodles twice daily, and shopping second hand for everything. After graduation there were student loans to pay and lower level jobs to get through. Eventually, as our financial situations became more stable, we simply wanted to make up for our time of sacrifice by spending money on ourselves. Indeed, I value the season tickets we purchase for the local arts events, and I relish the opportunity to buy my favorite books when they first come out, rather than waiting for the paperback version to be released. One of the things I know Eddie and I would have to give up if we had children is spending money on entertainment. At least once per week, and frequently twice, my husband and I eat dinner out—by ourselves or with friends. It’s not unusual that we spend $80-100 at these dinners, once the drinks, dessert, coffee, and tip are factored in. Besides these meals, we look forward to Sunday breakfasts with Kim and David and regular lunches with friends, co-workers, or each other. Sure, eating out is a luxury, and one we could likely do without, but as a childless couple we don’t have to make the decision of whether to eat at our favorite restaurants or add to the kids’ college funds.
Truthfully, the life we currently live would not be possible with the added burden of children. In addition to money, the main thing children take from their parents is time. Reading and playing with them; feeding, bathing, and talking to them; chauffeuring them to one event after another; counseling them; fighting with them: all of these things take time and energy. I’m happy that I don’t have to sacrifice afternoons spent with a good book or hours spent on the computer to sit through 12 years of little Billy’s annual Spring Concert, attend another of little Mary’s inane sporting events, and smile through the birthday parties and celebrations of Mary and/or Billy’s friends. Even the Purple Heart would be insignificant compensation for the valor needed to raise a youngster into adulthood, in my imagination. Just watching awkward, acne-covered teenagers cruising at the mall is enough to make me think: “Did I take my pill today? Is 99.9% effective enough? Is there a stronger dosage?”
With children, I never would have been able to consider spending two recent summers working on an archaeological project in Mexico. I couldn’t have spent two weeks with my sister while she recuperated from surgery—immediately after Eddie and I returned from two weeks in Spain. If they had kids, my friends Dave and Justine certainly wouldn’t be able to operate the said archaeological project—nor would they have traveled to Peru this past winter, St. Bart’s the year before, or have tickets to Belize and Cuba for this coming December. René and Jim wouldn’t be able to jog and row together every morning, and Teri wouldn’t be able to travel to Europe every few months as her business demands, while George locks himself in his office to meet his article or book deadline. Our monthly Girls’ Poker Night/Boys Night Out would certainly dissolve, and, as for that, forget any regular socializing—beyond Mommy and Me classes. Indeed, the freedom that being childless offers is likely its greatest advantage. Everyone I know who has kids travels less than the childless couples I know, and when they do travel, people with children go to grandma and grandpa’s house or a campground within a reasonable driving distance. I’m not saying that all childless couples are jet setters, but it’s certainly easier to travel without children: a family trip to the local movie theater with children in tow requires more preparation than many childless couples need to plan a three week Himalayan adventure—and our backpacks weigh much less than the average diaper bag.
I turned 38 this year, and I’ve become certain that the decision Eddie and I have made to remain childless is the right one for us. Still, at times—mainly when I watch a family movie or am exposed to what Justine calls a “trick” baby (one of the gurgling, non-crying, rash-free type)--I can’t help but worry. Will we be missing out on something important? How will our relationship fare? After all, Eddie and I have very few role models for a childless marriage. I don’t know a single older couple that has been married for a lifetime and has remained childless. Married, mature public figures have children. Married people in TV and movies have children. What will our “golden years” be built upon, if not our children and grandchildren?
It’s questions like these that make me relieved to meet couples like René and Jim, who have made the same decision we did. At least we’re not alone. Surprisingly, in addition to them, we are also friends with two other couples who remain childless and plan to do so; another couple we know cannot have children, although they would have liked one; and a fifth couple is not planning to have children together, although he has two children from a previous marriage. These friends, as well as a number of single people and older couples whose children are grown and have left their homes, comprise our social circle. None of us have to find baby sitters, and we don’t have to worry about people bringing children to our adult events—something that still takes me by surprise when socializing with the child-ful. Indeed, whatever inspires people to bring their toddler to a wine tasting at 9:00 in the evening is a mystery that will remain forever unsolved for the childless among us.
Despite our circle of childless friends, Eddie and I have attended a few mysterious events, due to the fact that many childless couples have dogs, cats, or both. Indeed, I must admit to taking part in an annual dog beach birthday party—during which six to eight dogs eat themselves sick, run around in a frenzy, and pose for pictures in party hats. Replace the dogs in this description with children, and the activities are strikingly similar to those at a child’s party. On the other hand, I wouldn’t feel comfortable kneeing the six-year-old girl who jumped up on me or ignoring the barks of the five-year-old boy demanding a playmate. There’s a limit to dog-party-invitee responsibilities, and they are limits I value as a childless—and pet-less—guest. And, while we do attend this dog-fest, Eddie and I just aren’t able to commit to the responsibilities of dog ownership ourselves. Indeed, when asked yet again about our plans to have children, I’ve begun responding with, “Kids? No way! We can’t even handle a dog.”
As isolated as we may seem, there is an ankle biter in our lives. My husband’s brother and his wife live in Portland, and they had a baby boy last September. We’re looking forward to being a great aunt and uncle to him, for, as I always say, while I’m not that fond of children, I really like the accessories. Buying miniature clothes, fascinating toys, and mesmerizing books for our nephew is a joy. We’ll do a splendid job watching him for a few weeks over the summers or holidays, too—always ready to turn him back to his parents, with a new drum set, at the end of the annual visit. The fact that our nephew lives 400 miles away will ensure that our visits are limited to those we plan, too—forgoing the need for us to make excuses to avoid regular babysitting. Actually, this distance from child-laden family is very common among our childless friends, whose closest relatives live in Texas, Ohio, Los Angeles, Chicago, and British Columbia. Because of this, we’re also more connected to each other than we are to our families. We often celebrate the holidays together, and we depend on each other for entertainment, advice, and assistance. And, when we’re together we don’t have to explain our childless status. (“No, Aunt Mary, no children yet” and “I’m sure your children are a blessing, Cousin Margaret.”) Instead, we can debate the issues surrounding education and child poverty and juvenile crime in an abstract manner. We can horrify each other with stories of the boy who peed his pants in the middle of the concert hall and the minions-of-Satan who dismantled the entire Sizzling Summer picnic display at the local department store in the time it took their mother to try on a single dress.
“How do people bear it?” we can wonder aloud, sip our cocktails, and lean back in our hot tubs.
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