The Breeding Game

Recently, I heard a radio host remark that there’s no point in being married without children, that children are the purpose for marriage. Funny, up until that point I had always assumed it was love. Curious. I mean, if the motive is just to procreate, why get married? Why go through the trouble of getting to know someone if all you want is a baby? But this kind of attitude is rampant among more than just second rate shock-jocks; it’s a position that at one time even I shared. In the fifty-five journals I completed from age twelve to eighteen, I wrote of getting married and having children as an inevitability, like having your wisdom teeth removed. There wasn’t much I could do about it, it just was. And sure enough, by the time I was twenty-three, I was married so children would have been the next logical step, right? Well, not so much. At first, Michael and I said it was just a matter of money and timing. We were both looking to finish school and become more established financially before we even entertained the idea of having children. Then the story became, we are working so many hours, Michael’s drive to work is crazy, and I’m still trying to get my bachelors, sooooo having children right now is just not possible. In reality, as we near our ten year anniversary, Michael and I have begun to realize that we may not even want children.

As the oldest of four, I’m no stranger to babies, not…at…all. The first of my siblings, Bridgette, is seven years younger than me. I was over the moon when she was born: nose pressed against the nursery glass, wearing a heart covered, very 80s, “Big Sister” t-shirt.  It was like having a living baby doll… that pooped, spit up, and cried seemingly without reason. Still, I fawned over Bridgette and when Mom and Dad, apparently confused by how babies are made, announced another was on the way, I was equally excited. That winter, amidst a rocky delivery where her umbilical cord made a choker of itself, Heidi was born just four days before Bridgette turned one. Mom and I became the tag-team champions of baby care 1985. I would sterilize bottles, warm milk, and change diapers for Bridgette or Heidi, while Mom would tend to the other. At thirteen, though I was relieved “the kids” were finally old enough to feed and clothe themselves, Mom and Dad declared they were expecting another baby in the hopes of having a boy. Lucky for everyone, a sonogram still of the poor kid’s tiny manhood captioned “It’s a boy!” verified it. With the baby’s sex confirmed, we spent hours around the kitchen table tossing out name ideas: Forest, Tucker…but it was I, in the midst of my Chevy Chase infatuation, who suggested Chase. Two months after I turned fourteen, our Chase had arrived. This time around, the delivery was more difficult for Mom than baby. With Mom incapacitated, I stayed at the hospital for my crash course in motherhood: Chase cried, I jumped…for nineteen years.

I know, I know, it’s different when it’s your own children, right? Of course it is, because then there isn’t anyone you can pass the kid back to when you’ve had enough. That’s the part I’m having difficulty with. I don’t want to have a child. I don’t want to have the daily responsibility of a little person relying upon me for everything. This is a responsibility I’m wise enough to know I’m not prepared to make. And logically, yes I know that my baby havin’ instincts may have been spent by the time I turned eighteen, but I wouldn’t change that to want my own children now. Growing up amongst infants, toddlers, kids, pre-teens, and teenagers has given me the opportunity to preview parenthood in a way that few people are able to. True, it’s rich with rewards, but it is work…constant, unyielding work that doesn’t ever stop. No gold watch, no party, no retirement. Then there’s “What about Michael? You’re depriving him of being a dad.” This one I love because it assumes that I have come to this conclusion about not having children without ever discussing it with my husband. To those who’ve brought up this point time and time again, let me assure you, we live together, we’ve known each other fourteen years, we talk. And the shocker? Michael might be the only person who doesn’t want children more than me.

This is not to say that neither of us wouldn’t make great parents. Honestly, I feel a little guilty that we don’t want children because I know Michael would be a wonderful father and I’m sure I’d eventually catch on. But the biggest mistake we could ever make for our lives or our marriage would be to force a lifelong decision based on the assumption we would be good for a child because at this stage a child wouldn’t be good for us. And ultimately, it’s the “us” that truly matters within our marriage; we are the ones who took the vows after all. In the thirty-three years I’ve not been a mother, I’ve sung Bridgette to sleep, played Pat-a-Cake with Heidi, and taught Chase to tie his shoes. I held Bridgette’s hand as she delivered my nephew, Aidan. I know what it is to love a child and to be loved by a child. That knowledge isn’t dimmed in the light of having not birthed a baby. Being a parent isn’t achieved through conception or birth. Sorry gang, it’s not. Being a parent, a true parent, is a status that’s earned through years of commitment, selflessness, and love. Those who have successfully made the sacrifice of becoming a parent have my upmost respect, primarily because they don’t see it as a sacrifice; they see it as a gift. The day I see having a child as a gift I’ll seriously reconsider my position on the subject because becoming a parent should be a blessing, not a strategic obligation of marriage.

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