Should I Have Kids?

On being classified "geriatric" and the absence of knowing.

I am envious of people who know.

Those who know what they want to do for work, where they’ll live, and the things they would never compromise on. I respect conviction, steadfastness, and certainty.

I, however, am not this person.

For most of my life, I’ve operated with fluidity.

This isn’t to say that I’m directionless, but historically, I’ve run on some combination of hard work and “vibes”. I’ve gotten to where I am without much planning. I like to stir things up, see which opportunities bubble to the surface, then go with the best thing available.

In any job interview or therapy setting, when asked, “Where do you see yourself in five years?”, I’ve always just delivered a noddable string of bullshit. On more than one occasion, I’ve answered with “happy!” (*insert smug smile*).

Unsurprisingly, big questions like “should I have kids?” fall into the category of the unplanned and uncertain.

I always assumed that one day, I’d just know. Or better yet, a cosmic “whoopsie” would seal my fate.

But without a northerly breeze of clarity—or a fertilization accident—I find myself here:

I have a life I like very much.

I am happily married.

I have two perfect gassy Boston Terriers.

I am heading deeper into my own becoming.

I have renewed focus, and I want to see where it goes.

But herein lies the conflict that all good lit demands: I can’t cast off this major, life-altering decision much longer.

Despite feeling like I just doused myself in Hawaiian Tropic before Driver’s Ed, I’m about to turn 36.

In a way that is classically offensive to women, I have entered “geriatric pregnancy” territory—a medical label that feels like a cruel relic.

I salute all women in their mid-30s (or greater) trying to make the to-kid-or-not-to-kid decision. I doubly salute those who are single, with far less certainty, and opting to put their decision on literal ice.

None of this is easy.

Even with a partner and relative stability, to-kid-or-not-to-kid feels heavy.

And for better or worse, my husband and I are both equally uncertain.

We have not accepted white linen sofas into our hearts, nor have we cleared counter space for a Baby Brezza.

If I had two versions of myself, I’d offer one up to ride in the family minivan and the other to ride top-down into the adults-only resort.

Unfortunately, there is only one version we get to play out. And making a choice that could dramatically and irrevocably change our lives carries enormous weight.

A few months ago at our local brewery, my mom and I stood at the bar. We’d already had a pint or two (one benefit of being childless) when the subject came up.

She admitted something controversial for a mother: she doesn’t really like kids unless they’re her own.

I relate to this entirely.

I find babies intimidating, and truthfully, a bit odd. Whenever I hold one, I feel like I’m doing it wrong—like one sudden hand jerk could put them (and their parents) into a permanently precarious position.

I have nieces and nephews, and I do feel a heart pang for them. When they giggle, cuddle, or inadvertently say something offensive, there’s a surge of warmth. I feel an innate part of me awakening.

But then I see their shitty toys littered across the floor and remember they wake up at 6 AM and apparently aren’t allowed to watch TV anymore. Suddenly, I’m sobered.

I don’t like aquariums and petting zoos.

I don’t want to step on Barbie’s briefcase.

I don’t want to be sleep-deprived for a decade.

My mom capped our barside conversation by asking, “Isn’t there a physical urge that you feel?”

I briefly shuddered at my mom loosely circling our animalistic urge to breed.

Then I responded, “No, I don’t.”

And I don’t. At least not yet.

When I picture the two versions of my life—the minivan and the adults-only resort—I can see happiness in both directions.

I can imagine love expanding in ways I don’t yet understand.
I can imagine a life shaped by untethered curiosity.

I am envious of people who know.

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P.s. If you haven’t received hate mail by a male colleague, stranger, or family member in the last 30 days, it may be time to up your shameless. Join us.