Sasee Magazine

A cute little toddler walked over to my mom at the pool and struck up a conversation with her.

“These your trucks?” he asked.

“Nope. They’re not mine,” Mom said.

He snatched up the tiny Tonkas, smiled at my mom and jumped back in the pool.

Moments later, that same dear little child approached me in the shallow end. I started to speak to him.

“How are…”

Before I could finish, he splashed me repeatedly, right in the face, until his mom whispered, “Sweetie, stop that.”

It was a sign – a sign from above, affirming what I previously believed. I am not a kid person; this little boy can sense it. And he just might be the spokeschild for all the kids in the world.

“You don’t belong anywhere near little children,” his aura seemed to say. “We can tell you don’t like us, and we don’t like you either.”

I swam to the other end of the pool, grabbed my noodle and floated on with my life – my childless life. It’s an existence that I am quite happy with as long as I am not being pestered with certain questions. These questions, regardless of how content I am feeling, always leave me with the sentiment that until I conceive, birth and raise spitting, dribbling, little humans, I simply will not measure up.

“When are you and Craig going to start your own family?” a nosy neighbor asks.

Didn’t we already do that? Didn’t we become a family unit the day we took our vows? Plus, we have a dog. We are a family of three.

“Well, you may think you’re exhausted now,” a friend complains over the phone. “But just wait until you have kids. Then you’ll know what tired is. You are going to have kids, aren’t you?”

During the week, I wake up at five am, drive thirty minutes to work and spend the next seven hours teaching adolescents who have learning and emotional disorders. Then, if I don’t have an after-school meeting or a parent conference, I drive home to cook dinner, walk the dog, grade papers and draft a critique for my graduate class. If I’m lucky, I get about six hours of sleep. But I cannot feel fatigued – I don’t have any children.

At a friend’s baby shower recently, an older woman really pushed the limits of politeness.

“Isn’t it about time you and Craig had a child of your own?” she asked.

“As opposed to what? Having another man’s child?” I responded.

I often use sarcasm or humor to deflect from what I really want to say – that it’s none of their business. And, why don’t you ask me which novel I’m reading, how my job is going or where I bought my dress?

In the past, I’ve told people that we aren’t having our “own” kids right now because we are spending a fortune in child support for Craig’s many illegitimate kids that live in New Zealand. I’ve said that I’m trying to accumulate half a million dollars before I procreate and wouldn’t they like to help me get started by giving me a thousand bucks. And for shock value I’ve added, “Of course we’re planning on having children. Have you heard what the going rate is for babies?”

I’ve been given looks of disbelief, horror and, one time, complete disgust. That was when a lady at the nail salon asked if Craig and I were “trying.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Several times each day. We have been trying the lateral coital position, but it is a little bit uncomfortable.”

She walked away.

I have given people numerous reasons for why my thirty-year-old womb remains empty. Except for the truth.

I haven’t explained to anybody that I stopped taking birth control five years ago when Craig and I got married. No one knows that I chart my basal body temperature, avoid high levels of mercury and regularly eat foods that are rich in antioxidants. I never told anyone that a year ago I was two weeks late, nauseous and extremely excited about a possible pregnancy. And then, a few days later, I quietly cried in the bathroom when my monthly visitor finally arrived.

It is much easier to make jokes and pretend I don’t really like children than to admit that we are having difficulty. But I can deal with the possibility of being infertile much easier than I can shrug off the constant, intrusive probing. I am tired of being treated less like a person with feelings and more like a Magic 8 Ball, prepared to turn up adequate responses to whether or not I plan to have children.

“Most likely.”

“Cannot predict now.”

“Outlook not so good.”

Sometime in the near future we will have a baby, whether it is conceived naturally or acquired through adoption. In the meantime, I plan to enjoy my life and all that a childfree existence has to offer. I will sleep in on the weekends, visit casinos, eat late dinners at fancy restaurants and travel to “adults only” resorts in Mexico and the Caribbean.

Then, one day, I will be able to pass down my values and beliefs to my own beautiful, little person. I will teach him to talk, sing, read, love and find every possible bit of joy in life. And when he is old enough, I will take him to the pool, teach him how to swim and tell him not to splash.