I took a class on how to care for children when I was eleven years old. We practiced putting diapers on baby dolls, learned how to feed babies, and talked about how to entertain toddlers and older kids. My mother suggested I take this summer school class; I assume this was part of a scheme to get me to earn my own money as a babysitter.
My first attempt at childcare did not go well. An affluent couple in town asked me to watch their six-month old for an evening. I was not quite sure I was ready to take on an infant for my initial attempt, but they offered a dollar an hour. It was possible I might make five bucks! They also agreed to pick me up and take me home, so I thought I would give it a go.
When I arrived at the parent’s home, the baby boy was hanging out in a kind of harnessed bouncy chair, his feet just above the floor with toys in front of him to poke and prod. I was shown what to feed him, and where his bedroom and changing table were. With that brief introduction, the couple ran out the door. I stared at this young being, thinking he did not in any way resemble the baby dolls I had practiced on. In retrospect, it was at this moment that I became flooded with terror. I knew I did not know what I was doing. Yet, I tried to overcome this, I would act like a grown up babysitter, no matter what. Quite quickly, and likely in response to my overwhelming anxiety, the boy began to cry. I picked him up to see if he needed changing. It was not clear that he did. I tried feeding him. He was not hungry. For the better part of the next four hours, the baby cried, as I tried helplessly and hopelessly to console him. He finally fell asleep. When the parents came home, I confessed my failures of not taking good enough care of their son. They said they understood, but the father was silent in the car as he drove me home. I never saw that family again.
I retired briefly from babysitting after that disastrous evening. However, by the time I was 13, I was a highly sought after childcare worker. My Friday and Saturday evenings were booked. I took care of kids of all ages—even infants—who I had grown to prefer. I liked feeding them most of all. Babies fixate on the eyes of whoever is providing nourishment—I liked the idea that I was being admired.
Later, as I got into the fields of social work and ultimately clinical psychology, my first few jobs involved hanging out with kids. At one such job, while I was in college, I brought two 7-and 9-year old girls to a miniature horse farm. The two inner-city kids, skinny and undernourished as a result of a crack-addicted mom, got to pet, brush and feed these strange and adorable animals. The younger child, who was blond with freckles spattered across her face, seemed to be smiling the entire day. One of my colleagues watched me as I helped the girls soothe a tense pony by offering him carrots, a treat he seemed to enjoy. She said, “You are going to be such a great mom.” I heard this a lot.
Yet, I was always on the fence about having kids. Ultimately, my husband, Andrew, and I decided not to.
Our conclusion was not an epiphany; it was more like a slow waning of desire and recognition of apprehension. In the way that close couples operate, with a kind of synergy, we knew without ever talking much about it that we did not want to take on parenting. Our most serious discussions related to the timing of Andrew’s vasectomy. We dealt with the subject practically. Perhaps we approached it this way because it took me nearly another decade to fully understand why I did not want kids: I worried I would be a bad mother.
For years I thought there was something defective in my psychology. Surely a woman as accomplished and happily married as I should want a child?
Except, I didn’t and I don’t. As I grew older, I realized that I was among a growing number of women who were making conscious choices about motherhood. Unlike our parent’s generation, when procreation was a presumption for most, women in recent decades are saying no for many reasons—and they feel fine about it. I do too, most of the time.
Yet, sometimes I wonder. If my family had been different, would I have signed up for the motherhood gig? I don’t think so. For the first time in history, there are a number of women and men, a large chunk of the U.S. population, who just don’t want to do what their parents did. Though our backgrounds may play a role in our choice, society is just more permissive. We care less about who marries whom, we even tentatively embrace non-traditional lifestyles; we worry less about the judgments some people have toward those of us who choose a life without kids.
What do lives look like when we are not raising children? Those of us making the choice may be struggling to define a different, and better, way of life.
For example, what do you do for Thanksgiving? The December holidays are even more dicey; the absence of eager and excited children not only threatens to put Santa Claus out of business, but also can create a dual sense of freedom and displacement. Are we happier than parents? Some research says yes. Parenting is a tough job, though it does not automatically follow that those of us without kids are better adjusted. There may be added pressure to define meaning when we don’t do what most people did (and still do) regarding the child decision.
People with kids often have a sense that someone will care for them in old age. They also get to participate in the great joy of mentoring grown-up kids, sometimes even becoming friends with them. Without children, we lose some of these rewards. Is there something better on the horizon for those of us who don’t have children? I think so. But a fantastic sociological experiment is happening. I am eager to see the results.
Stay tuned for more on the topic of a life without kids, the subject of my new book.
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