Maybe Baby

In my scribbling and my tweets (and I do plenty of both) I usually tend to keep a lid on my more controversial opinions.  I’m not wishing to imply that having an opinion is a bad thing, nor am I against free speech. If you have an opinion it is your right to air it, and you should do so without the fear of criticism or hatred. However, I don’t wish to offend or upset anyone who may completely disagree with my thoughts or feelings. Having said this, I’m going to be honest in this piece and would like to apologise for any offence I may cause.

Imagine if you will a young couple both in their mid-twenties. They work good jobs; they have a pleasant home and foreign holidays. The man may have a hobby like golf or football; the woman might have a gym membership and a group of girls in a similar state to her own with whom she can share a bottle of wine and her misgivings about life. One night, the woman grasps her husband’s hand and says “Darling, we have freedom in our lives and income. Would you like to have children and ruin all of that?” I feel this way to greater or lesser extent about children.

Firstly, I don’t like children. Whatever it is that gives women their maternal instinct was clearly left out of me. I don’t like babies, toddlers, children, teenagers or even young adults. I find them tiresome and irritating. I have absolutely no interest in the feeding or sleeping habits of babies. I have no interest when they learn to walk and talk, no interest if they do well at school or not or how many friends they have. I do not find it endearing when I am attempting to have a conversation with another adult and their child is screaming and clamouring for attention. I don’t have any children of my own and few of my friends have them. With those who do, I am polite, I take a surface-level interest but I simply don’t care any more than that. This may make me sound heartless, but I simply cannot bring myself to care.

I rather feel that children have the same quality as cats. Watch a cat walk into a crowded room and unless they’re a complete wimp like my parents cat (the fluffy faced Dee-Dee) who runs full pelt out of the house when the doorbell rings, a cat will stalk into a room and immediately perch themselves, purring like a lawnmower, on the lap of the cat-hater. Children are also like this. On the few occasions I have been in the company of children, they stick to me like glue and decide I am their best friend.

I have no idea why this is, being as I am clueless in the workings of children. Perhaps it is because I don’t patronise them (because I don’t know how to talk to children) perhaps it is because I don’t try and cuddle them (I wouldn’t dare.) The last time my colleague brought her little daughter into work, she immediately perched herself on my lap and drew me a picture of two stick-people (I had a violent burst of purple hair and a frankly frighteningly large bust) which apparently was her and me, with the words (I have left her spelling as it was) “To you I like you and I whish I was your issitent”. I have this pinned up on my wall but I had to disinfect my desk after this permanently sticky nipper had managed to cover all my possessions in what appeared to be strawberry jam.

Babies scare me even more than small children. A small child you can talk to and being as I collect many things small girls adore (key rings and anything with Hello Kitty on) I can usually be relied upon to entertain them without too many tantrums. My colleague’s daughter also likes to plait my hair and wear my glasses. But you can’t converse with a baby. The last time my friend left her tiny baby in my arms, the second she was out of eye line he began to scream like he was being murdered and arching his back like a large salmon. All my panicking, flapping, singing “Golden Slumbers” and waving my bracelets were to no avail. He continued to scream until his mother returned. I handed him back and had a little breakdown. Babies might be lovely, for some people, when they are small (he enjoyed playing “where is the yellow ball?” with me on quite a few occasions) but when he is screaming, going to the toilet or having some kind of fit because he didn’t want a sliced banana, I feel so utterly useless I could cry myself. There is the crux of the matter itself- I imagine that if you commit to having children, you’ve got to be ready to take the rough with the smooth.

I know, deep in my heart, that I’d be a useless Mother. Not liking children is the first hurdle to get over. Having said that, my own Mum has no maternal instinct whatsoever and I’ve never seen her go googly-eyed at a little dribble-soaked person in a pushchair. She managed to produce three relatively normal children so maybe that’s not the biggest issue. However, I haven’t the patience or the consideration to be a good Mother. I’m far too selfish and I like my life the way it is. I couldn’t ever imagine needing to pop to the supermarket for bread and this involving an operation of pushchairs, wipes, snacks, clean pacifiers and heaven knows what else. I like my sleep, and a kiddie in a romper suit would severely hamper this.

Some Mothers, and I really would like to stress the word “some” have a very odd opinion of childless women. They pity us, as if some part of our life is missing. A lady I went to school with (and let me tell you, she was a hardcore bad girl) seems to have re-invented herself as some kind of basket-weaving earth Mother who can only ever tell the world about her children in tender minutiae. She is prone to posting Facebook statuses about her “little miracles” (pass the sick bucket please) and about the latest organic-and-made-by-Benedictine-monk’s-lentil -paste she has served them for dinner. Firstly, you didn’t really do anything that amazing, did you? Your body is designed to carry and birth babies and you simply let biology do its thing. Secondly, I’ve no doubt you work very hard raising your children but it is so wrong to imply that I am a lazy devil (as she has done in many Facebook statuses) because I don’t have them. I run a house, I cook meals, I shop, I do DIY, I have a full-time job, I write, I have a social life. Does this all count for nothing because I failed to pro-create along the way? I think not.

I am starting to fail at holding my tongue. A lady at work said to me “Are you married?” I replied no, but engaged, have been for five years, no immediate plans. She then did a funny little eye rolling gesture and said “You’d better get a move on if you want your babies!” I told her that no, I know I don’t ever want children. She laughed rudely and replied “Oh, you don’t know anything yet”. Deadpan, I replied actually, yes, I do, because I can’t physically have children. That shut her up in a flash. I admit this was a horrid thing to do but I am completely sick and tired of people telling me I’ll “change my mind”. I know with absolutely certainty I won’t because the decision was already made for me. I often wonder if people realise how rude this question or statement is. I wouldn’t bowl up to her and say “You’re quite old. Still having sex?” In my opinion, commenting on a couples children or lack thereof is easily as personal, yet people feel they have the right to freely comment on this. I really hate being patronised and particularly on this subject. I do know what I’m doing with my life thank you; I have been an adult for quite some time.

Please do not think I am trying to make light of infertility. For some couples, I can hardly even say how sorry I am for the pain and misery of wishing to have a family and not being able to. For me, the news barely made me blink. It’s not an issue. A family was never in my spectrum and never will be. To be honest, it actually made my boyfriends grandchildren-obsessed Mother give me a break because now she knows I can’t ever give her those. Thankfully, my Sister-in-Law has dropped two sproglets and taken the heat off me. I owe her for that.

I will never be able to understand why people decide to have children. I have quizzed my Mum endlessly on the subject and she tells me that her and my Dad wanted to be a family. I can’t make sense of this. They had each other, and they were very happy. I love the pictures of them before me and my brothers came along- they look so young and carefree. Being as my elder brother had the misfortune to be born with a myriad of health issues, perhaps they’re not the best example to use here. My Mum was 27 when she had my older brother, which is hardly fresh out of nappies but still, I can hardly imagine the burden of your first child being so poorly for so many years. For some unfathomable reason, they had me and my little brother after my older brother and assure me it was the best decision they ever made. Surveying the once beautiful home they had being trashed by somersaulting on the sofa games (sorry Mum, that was me and the little one) and once adult nooks and crannies being possessed by brightly coloured plastic things and smelly blankets, I’m going to have to trust them on this one. My Dad, who as well as being a very devoted and loving Father (I pretty much don’t remember him ever not being at any shows, award ceremonies or anything else important) was very senior in the fire service for a great many years. How on earth did he manage this? He must be a superhero. I’ve always suspected it anyway.

After the endless woes of nappies, teething and sleepless nights, the dreaded teenage years come. Now, this I know I could never cope with. My older brothers illnesses kept him out of mischief but they sure had their work cut out with me. Older boyfriend, social drinker, far too revealing clothing and piercings, that was me. A walking cliché for teenage rebellion, I know for a fact I was a challenging little so and so who deserved a good walloping for a lot of things. My parents assure me I wasn’t that much of a handful but they were bright enough to know what I’d been up to, when I sneaked in 2 hours past my curfew in a bucket of eyeliner, smelling of vodka. You simply cannot protect your children forever and they must be free to make their own mistakes. But it can’t be easy. There are an awful lot of things my parents don’t know about my past and I see it as my duty to protect them from some of the more irresponsible things I did. Put it this way, I’m quite lucky to be alive.

In amongst the boyfriends and girlfriends, the piercings, tattoos and awful music, Mums and Dads cope with the constant problems of growing up. Why am I so fat? Am I pretty? Will girls fancy me? Why do I suck so much at maths? Despite my poise now (ha) I once was a very insecure and emotional girl and my Mum bore the brunt of my weeping and wailings. Despite the fact I moved out some 5 years ago, the poor people still have me hanging on the phone, with anything from “I can smell gas. What do I do?” to “I’ve completely plucked out my left eyebrow in a fit of lunacy. Help me”. My older brother now also lives away from home, but I know that financially and emotionally we are still a burden. We never stop needing our parents and their support and love. I still expect praise for the most minor achievement, and know that I still disappoint them in many ways. I am still bouncing from job to job like a tennis ball and refusing to grow up (I do love my dad’s comments when I get a new tattoo. “Yes. Very nice Sarah”.) I will never stop craving their approval which means that despite their advancing years (I mean this politely, they’re still very young) and the fact that my Dad has now retired, their work isn’t done at all. Me and my brothers will eventually get married (I assume), maybe my brothers will have children. There’s going to be car accidents, home improvement disasters and failures at work. We will still expect their support. Is anyone really tough enough to commit to a lifetime of this?

I know that I am not. But, I will not be shamed, bullied or condemned because I do not wish to have children. I’ll be completely blunt, if I found out tomorrow by some miracle I was pregnant, I would terminate the pregnancy without heartache. I simply couldn’t cope with having children. Financially, emotionally and in maturity stakes, I am not ready.  There is only ever one reason in this day and age to have a child: because you want one.

Whilst I come from a loving and stable home, my boyfriends childhood is an all too common tale where money was short and violence plentiful. He doesn’t wish to have children either. His reasons are his own, but at least I do not feel that I am depriving him of anything. In my jobs, I have worked in services for children and have read some reports that would make even a cold-hearted snake like me melt. It is too sad to hear of the neglect or abuse some children suffer at the hands of their parents. Not least to mention the parents whose children are born with life threatening illnesses, disabilities and behavioural problems. It never is plain sailing for any parent, but some out there suffer more than I could ever imagine. But they made a commitment to their children, to love and to care for them, and by some strength I clearly do not have, they do.

I admire and respect parents, but I do not ever wish to be one myself. I don’t ask for a parade affirming this decision, but nor do I expect criticism or pity. We all have our choices to make in life, and must be afforded respect for whatever they may be.