Not The Mothering Type

By Elizabeth Major on December 18, 2014 in Other

I’m just not the mothering type.

It could be the screaming. I think that is the main reason. I can’t handle that blood curdling screeching noise they make when they are crying, when they are happy, even when they just laugh. This is an argument I find myself having constantly. You’ll change your mind, they say. You would be a great mum, they offer. You would have beautiful children, they gush.

Well let me start by saying yes, it is possible that one day I will change my mind, but thus far I have been fairly determined about the idea that I do not want children.

In my mother’s time it was inconceivable that a woman would remain unmarried as she approached her thirties, much less without child. The word ‘barren’ was considered a curse upon her womanhood and a direct reflection of her worthiness as a human being.

These days I would love to think that said perception has changed, but sometimes I find that it has not. Apparently my desire to remain childless is anti-social, rebellious and practically an insult to the human race. Without children, how can I possibly count myself a significant part of my species given that I have decided not to contribute to it?

I get the distinct impression that my womb is not my own business, but rather the property of the collective human push towards a larger economy. Obviously people who choose not to reproduce spend their money differently. Instead of nappies, education and a larger car I would be far too inclined to spend my money on travel, doing yoga in India for months at a time and buying myself a quiet chateau in the south of France.

I will be the first to admit that I am a rather selfish person and, from what I can tell, babies are rather clingy. They need to be fed, held and looked at. I also don’t particularly like being touched and a child seems like an awfully sustained invasion of my personal space.

To be perfectly frank, a very real reason I don’t want to have a child of my own is the horrifying possibility that my spawn would be just like me. When I was a baby, I was quiet, which was apparently far too nerve-racking for my mother who, if she couldn’t hear me, thought I was dead. Personally, I couldn’t deal with that level of anxiety before breakfast. As it turns out, I didn’t stay quiet and became one of the worst teenagers you could imagine. I doubt great parenting every began with the sentence, “Look, from personal experience I can tell you that is a bad idea.”

Unfortunately it is entirely possible that I may one day change my mind. My life might start to slow down and my womb may one day wrench control of my senses and decide that the time has come to contribute to the population. Maybe one day I will experience temporary insanity and decide that a grommet would light up my day. If I do, I sincerely hope the kid is quiet, but not so quiet that I ever think it’s dead.