Why I don’t want kids

It’s got nothing to do with selfishness or not liking children.

by Jade Sterling

It’s not my independent streak manifesting in a stubborn phase; I wouldn’t think differently if they were my own; I won’t one day realise what I’ve been missing. It’s not an understandable stance right now because life is still tumultuous and I’m still young and there’s plenty of time for that. It’s not a feminist stand against traditional family roles, it’s not a lack of money or security, it’s not because I’d rather spend that money on holidays or fancy clothes. It’s not an environmental concern because our planet is already seriously overpopulated and with many unwanted kids at that. It’s not because I don’t like children (I’m just not great with them) and it’s not because I think I’d be a bad parent. I’m not worried about passing on any out-of-whack genetics (my family line made it this far, after all!) and I’m not worried they’d turn out to be serial killers or axe-murderers.

As gory and scary as the birth horror stories can be, and how much the thought of my body changing during pregnancy squicks me out, that’s not what’s put me off having kids.

It’s not even everything that comes after—although that certainly doesn’t help.

The utter exhaustion—the sleep-deprived, zombie existence as your entire world boils down to keeping a bundle of bodily fluids and ear-splitting shrieks alive. The endless responsibility, the eternal worry—oh yeah, like I’d be able to stop worrying about them once they turned 18 and wandered off into the big wide world to make all the same mistakes I did. Being the sole caretaker to small children day in and day out; so tired it feels this level of exhaustion is my new permanent state of being; carrying the constant guilt and doubt surrounding my actions and choices in raising children; possibly regretting the whole thing. All this can be added to the mix when I think about it, but it’s not even because I’m selfish—very much so.

I know exactly why I don’t want kids: I don’t want to find out how it feels to resent a child for keeping me from the life I wanted to live.

I don’t want to resent my husband (who thinks he wants kids) and I can’t bear the thought of burdening my child with the suspicion they’re unwanted—or unloved. I would love my children; I would love them with everything I had, but the lifestyle that accompanies this love is not the one I want. Children are perceptive—you can’t tell me they wouldn’t be able to sense an undercurrent of resentment I would desperately try to keep buried.

I’m scared of post-natal depression in a girl already battling perfectly-normal-not-hormone-influenced depression; I’m scared of not bonding with my child. I’m scared they’d hand them to me and I’d feel nothing. I’m scared that would never go away, and instead of a burning desire to care for and give this child everything, I’d go through the necessary motions, raising them properly but unable to give them what they really need: love with no strings attached.

This revelation tends to shock and horrify people who go to great lengths to convince me otherwise: psychology professor Leslie Ashburn-Nardo wrote, ‘people experience moral outrage when they perceive someone has violated a morally prescribed behaviour, something we’re “supposed to do” because it’s what we see as right.’ I don’t owe the world anything, and I don’t owe it kids. But more than this: every child deserves to be loved unconditionally, completely and unequivocally. Every child deserves to know they are loved and to feel loved—and I’m scared mine wouldn’t.

You can tell me that’s silly; you can tell me I’m too nice a person for that to happen; you can tell me the joy that comes with having children more than offsets giving up whatever you feel you’re giving up. But once you take the leap, that’s it—there’s no handing a child back if it’s not okay.

That’s simply too great a risk for me. ■