Every now and again, something on TV or the internet will remind me about my eggs. They’re dying. Did you know that girls are all born with their whole lifetime’s worth of eggs in their ovaries, and as time passes, they continuously die? So I’m feeling the pressure a little bit. I’m still studying and that’s all I need to concentrate on right now, but I can constantly feel how rapidly life is slipping away. And I don’t want inaction to make the decision for me.
There are other pressures, aside from my body clock. Choosing whether or not to have kids is like choosing between two significantly different ways of life – there’s no halfway point; you either commit to raising a child, or you don’t. I think my partner wants kids. He’s the loveliest person in the world and the only person I’d even consider having children with, so he insists that it’s entirely up to me, and he’d love a family with me, even if it’s just the two of us. Because he’s lovely. Which means the path both of our lives follow is entirely up to me. Oh god.
Most women like babies, but when someone shows me a photo of one I’m pretty indifferent. They seem to expect some sort of reaction though. It’s like we’re not allowed to not want children; maybe people see it as selfish or antisocial. But just because women can incubate babies doesn’t mean it’s their calling – I can drive, but that doesn’t make me a taxi driver. I’m not that fond of kids. I work at a supermarket, so I rarely see one that isn’t trying to hurt people with the sound of its screaming because it can’t get a lolly right now. But then you meet that one rare child that smiles at you genuinely. And this one is polite and selfless, and you love her instantly.
The trouble is, having a child is horrific. We begin with the continuous discomfort and indignity of pregnancy, when your body is stretched to breaking point, and then there’s the actual childbirth, in which a small human being tears its way out of your body through a very small hole between your legs. And then you actually have a kid, which means working with poop and vomit and old food; arguments with a resentful teenager; staying at home to make sure you show that you love them enough; inevitably messing them up somehow regardless of how you approach parenting; and losing your career aspirations, your hobbies – your life. When I think about having a kid, I can’t help but see it as my life sacrificed for theirs. And I don’t want to die yet. Life is short enough.
But then, love is the most important thing in life. Certainly more important than health or creative fulfilment, or ambition or vanity. I’ve asked a small sample of mothers why on earth they had kids and if they regretted it. They always give me a long list of why it sucks, and then one reason for making it all worth it: love. If I stop freaking out for a moment, having a child seems like it’s about giving someone exactly what I value most: life. Maybe someone else deserves that. Maybe there’s something nice about creating a person with the one you love most, who is a part of both of you… just so that you have another person to love and take care of. It sounds beautiful. And if the choice was taken away from me, I would be something beyond devastated.
I’ve thought of a solution. I will be the father. I won’t have to birth the child or be pressured to give up my dreams and stay at home. I’ll get all the rewards of children without the sacrifice. And if my uterus gets in the way of this plan, maybe my body will somehow still be functional after being torn apart like all the mothers I’ve met. Maybe my partner will be lovely enough to share the task of raising them. Maybe what I do sacrifice will be worth it.