My niece turns back to me and giggles, pleased with her directive, her eyes lit up with excitement as we bundle up to take the dog for a walk. Randy, a golden-brown mini doodle, hops at the door in anticipation of time outside. It’s a beautiful winter day, and we make our way down the driveway while Randy yanks on his leash excitedly, anxious to sniff and explore.
“Ria, I want to walk Rani-o”,Tillie says, using one of her favorite nicknames for the dog.
I hand the leash over to her with instructions to hold on tight. She grips the leash handle, jogging behind Randy to keep up. I whip out my iPhone to capture this moment, watching the little pom-pom on top of her hat bouncing as she chases the dog down the road.
After about twenty seconds, she loses interest in walking and lets the leash go. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and quickly snatch it up. Once we reach the end of the road, I turn to her and ask:
“Alright, Til. What next?”
She looks up at me, one eye shut to block out the bright afternoon sun.
“I’m hungry”, she replies.
“Ok, let’s go back to the house and make some lunch”, I tell her.
She grabs my hand, and we make our way back home.
Living an hour away, I don’t get to see my niece as often as I would like, so I try to savor these moments with her. After only two and a half years, she’s stolen my heart. As cliche as it
surely sounds, I am among those who did not know it was possible to love a little person so much.
Parents often say that their kids grow up so fast, but it’s an experience watching it happen. Every time I see her, a new aspect of her personality has developed. She’s quickly forming into her own person, and I already want to pause time, slowing it down just enough to appreciate these small, precious moments before they disappear. I can of course only imagine what that must feel like for my sister.
I tried writing a piece about motherhood this week. It fell flat. I wrote about ten different versions, deleting, editing, or throwing them out altogether. It’s such a delicate conversation, and how do you write about something you know little about? Yet, as someone who feels very close to many mothers, and as someone who has of course thought about motherhood a lot myself, I wanted to have a broader conversation, one in which we can be honest about our worries, struggles, feelings, and choices.
And now, we reach that awkward pause in the conversation, where I have to admit that I do not have plans to be a mother. And then the next pause in which I might wonder what you think about that.
It’s not because I don’t see and sense its many gifts, it’s just that I have big, scary doubts about being a mom – ones that I cannot easily dismiss or put aside to think about later.
I could choose from a list of issues in the broader sense. We’re in a climate crisis. Capitalism is
inherently harmful. Humanity sets a new population record every day. These things concern me
greatly, and I imagine they must figure into my instincts about motherhood on some level.
But – as best I can tell - my doubts are not first and foremost about the world around me. Mostly, I genuinely enjoy my life as it is. I know a child would change that in ways I cannot fathom and in ways in which I am hesitant to choose for myself.
I worry that my reasons will sound selfish and simplistic, appear naive, invite unwanted scrutiny, or feel like a judgment of others' decisions, which is not my intent. For me, it’s simply the choice that feels right for me at this time period in my life.
I know my choice is not traditional, and I’ll be honest, I often feel like a fish out of water trying to navigate this unfamiliar landscape. Some days, it’s really exciting and fun. Other times it’s scary and uncertain. Mostly, I wonder where I can make the most positive impact, to open the door for some more open and honest conversations about our lives - how we’re doing, what we need, how we can help one another.
And then I think of those who struggle, for whom motherhood lingers just out of reach. It’s heartbreaking to witness - the endless doctor appointments, the tears, anguish, and heartbreak.
I don’t want to appear flippant about my childfree existence. It feels cruel and thoughtless.
Because whether we’re parents or not, we have responsibility for the generations who follow us. My choice comes with some freedom and flexibility that gives me the opportunity to be generous with my time, to be available when someone may need it. We all have some light to shine in the world, and I like to think this is mine. I want to do something with it.
“I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have kids”, one of my friends once said to me. I don’t know why we don’t have more conversations like this, ones filled with honesty and vulnerability. We all see it – the exhaustion, the doubts, the thoughts about how much easier life was before little humans were demanding all your physical and emotional resources. Could I help? Do you want me to help? Is it rude to even ask or assume that help is needed?
Because I also wonder. What would my life be like with kids? I see the Facebook posts about family vacations, first steps, first words, the first time you held your baby in your arms and
your entire existence was forever changed. The endless array of activities – sports, music lessons, theater productions, new hobbies – keep the days full and busy. The friendships and communities you will build because of having kids is something child free couples have a hard time replicating. Not surprisingly, part of me understands and craves this life.
I would love to talk about that. How you can want something but very much not want it at the same time. How I think kids are wonderful. That I love watching these little humans you have created with their own thoughts, personalities, hopes, dreams, who will one day have their own impact on the world. That it’s almost enchanting to watch you exist for something beyond yourself and your immediate needs, juggling the many demands that accompany your new role. How I admire that you embrace it with such confidence, figuring it out along the way, generously providing guidance and encouragement to others who follow.
There isn’t a person out there who is not lacking something, parent or otherwise. Part of self-acceptance involves acknowledging your limitations. And grieving the loss of possibilities will frequently accompany the choices we make. We will never know about the life we did not choose - its gratifications, its limitations, or its drawbacks. But finding joy in the life you did is what will matter.
I don’t know that I’ll ever be a mom, and that’s ok. But I do want to be a good friend, a good auntie, a good family member, a good human. And perhaps, for now, that’s simply enough.
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