Excuses to Appease Small Minds

The first time I joked about not wanting children—something like, “Would it be so bad if I didn’t have kids?”—I must have been seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen. My mother gave me that look African mothers give when their children say something youthful and naive, like, “I will use my first million dollars to buy balloons” or “one thousand acres of fried chicken.” My aunties, who were seated beside her, gave me similar looks. One even squeezed my lips with her hand. The other said, “I reject it for you” or “God forbid.” It might have been both.

Fast forward five or six years. Today, when I tell people that I don’t want kids, their reactions fall into two distinct groups. First, there are those who take my desire for zero children personally.

“Personally” doesn’t quite capture it. They take it as an affront, as if you’ve called them foolish or insulted their desire to have kids. They act as though your choice is a personal attack. These people are the religious zealots, the patriarchal dimwits who cannot fathom a woman existing outside of bearing children for a man and within a family unit. They call you selfish and juvenile, insisting you’ll change your mind in time.

The second group consists of those who consider themselves progressive. “Oh, that’s fine,” they’ll say. “It’s not even necessary to have kids these days.” This is quickly followed by, “Oh, you’ll be such a cool, rich aunt.” When I was younger, I admired these “progressive” people for accepting my desire for a childfree life. I took it as a compliment. Of course I’ll be a cool, rich aunt! Of course I’d make a great aunt!

But it never stops.
You’ll be a cool aunty.
You’ll be a rich aunty.
You’ll be an aunty.
You’ll spoil my children.

A friend even said I’d be active in her children’s lives, like a second mom.

Clown. 

*

If you ask me why I don’t want kids, I could give you several legitimate and compelling reasons.

I could tell you that I am diabetic, with terrible eyesight—diabetes inherited from my mother, poor vision from my father—and I don’t wish to pass these on.

I could tell you that my mother passed away two years ago. When she was alive, I was more open to the idea of having a child or two, because she promised to be by my side through thick and thin, to do omugwo*, and to be active in my children’s lives. She assured me I would never be alone. Now she is gone, and I am alone. I am eternally separated from her, and no one will love me like she did. No one would love my children like she would have, and no one would do omugwo for me, taking care of and supporting me pre- and post-childbirth or adoption, like she would have.

I could tell you about the first time I knew I would make a terrible mother. I was older, and my sister was younger, holding a small baby. The baby slipped from her grasp, and my sister fell, breaking her knees to catch the baby. As everyone praised my ten-year-old sister for her quick reflexes and willingness to injure herself to save the baby, I knew it could never have been me. In the car on our way back home, my mother voiced my thoughts: “Shalom would never intentionally injure herself like that. She loves herself too much.” Damn right I do.

I could tell you that after my mother died, relatives and well-wishers at the funeral told me, “Now you’re responsible for your younger sisters.” As if I hadn’t known that all along. As if, by being the eldest daughter, I hadn’t been taking care of them my entire life. As if I didn’t already love and protect them as much as I loved and protected myself before.

I have never loved anyone as much as I love myself. At least, that’s what I thought. Then, one time, ten months of distance apart and many states away from my youngest sister, I was on a phone call with her. I don’t remember what we were talking about—it could have been anything under the sun. But she was talking on and on, and suddenly I thought, “I would die for you.” I would die for my sisters. I had never felt that way about anyone before, never had such a clear conviction that if a maniac burst into a room with guns blazing, I would shield my sisters without hesitation. But I would. And you know, as a mother, by virtue of being a mother, you have to die for your children too if necessary. I’d rather limit the number of people I have to die for.

I could tell you that since childhood, I’ve believed you’re only responsible for your offspring’s stupidity. I simply cannot bear the thought of being responsible for a foolish child of mine. I cannot accept that.

I could also argue that we’re facing a population crisis. There are too many people on the planet—8 billion and counting—with insufficient resources. If anything, by choosing not to have two or three children, I believe I’m doing this planet a favor. Call me a hero.

These are valid perspectives in their own right; fair justifications. But they’re excuses, not the truth.

The truth is, I am selfish. That’s why I don’t want to have children. I can’t imagine being responsible for another human being every single day until I die. I certainly don’t want to deal with cleaning up poop or vomit for years. The idea of enduring the physical toll of childbirth, including potential damage to my body, even temporarily, for another person—even if they are my own flesh and blood—doesn’t appeal to me at all. I’d sooner endure a diet of wet jeans and boiled charcoal forever. And no, adoption isn’t something I’m drawn to either. While it avoids the pains of childbirth, it means committing to providing for another mouth for the rest of my life. Managing my own needs is a legitimately monumental task. Why would I want to take on more?

Some people argue that selfish individuals have children all the time. “You’ll change once you have your first child,” they’ll say, or “You won’t be selfish with your child—maybe with everyone else, but not with your own.”

That’s all well and good, and it may even be true. Which brings us to the ultimate reason that I shall not have children: because I don’t want to. There is no large, grand reason, just excuses to appease small minds. I have no desire to be a rich or cool aunt—or any kind of aunt, for that matter. I don’t want to redirect any unused maternal energy towards others’ children; that defeats the purpose entirely. Nor do I wish to take on a ‘second mother’ role for friends’ kids. I do not care for motherhood, and hold no desire to be a mother in any capacity. 

Simple fucking choice. What a concept. 

*Omugwo is a traditional Nigerian practice especially among the Igbo people where a new mother receives postpartum care from her own mother over a certain period of time. It can last anywhere between a few weeks to many months.