I don’t remember playing with baby dolls. Barbies? Hell yeah, for hours. (And I mean hours.) Bratz? You betcha. Polly Pockets, Betty Spaghettis, Samantha Parkington, screaming crying pooping blobs with arms in The Sims? Absolutely.
But baby dolls? Participating in any kind of mothering make-believe? I’m drawing a blank.
Maybe this is because by the time I was even considering consciousness, my little sister Emily was born. Who needs baby dolls when you have a real life bb bestie?! There is photographic evidence of me looming over her crib like, “Gonna make her be the sidekick characters for LIFE.” There is photographic evidence of me holding her, playing with her, lying next to her and teaching her her first words, probably (“world domination”). There are more photos of me with her than without her.
Those are core memories I have. But liking baby dolls? Still drawing a blank.
By the time my second little sister Kayley was born, I was 10, which is too old for baby dolls anyway, and now I had another real life bb bestie if I really wanted to role play the responsibility of Being a Mother. And maybe, by then, Emily and I were gender norm conformists anyway and playing “house” and “mom” and imagining worlds of our own with those aforementioned not-baby dolls?
Fuck, no! Those dolls were living, let me tell you. They were saving the world, Ken heads were rolling, they were hosting gymnastics tournaments on the blanket rack thing, they were singing every hit song The Chicks ever had, they were breaking up and making out (after the heads were popped back on, because #notallkens) and did I mention saving the world? There were big Power Rangers undertones here, none of that Full House bullshit. And much like Mary-Kate and Ashley, we would pick our boyfriends in our Fake World and then we would go on wacky adventures that sometimes involved witness protection or heists and a soundtrack stacked with Simple Plan.
But there were never, ever babies.
I went through a phase in high school, and into college, where I thought kids were gross and I referred to babies as “it.” I admit now that this was immature, but also? It was fine, because I was a child. My brain needed to think critically about “Frankenstein,” I didn’t think about babies! I had changed enough of Kayley’s diapers already, anyway, thank you. Babies seemed like a hassle until they got to be like 8 and so I went on birth control because I just wanted to do shots with my friends. The idea of something growing inside of me like an alien from “Alien” freaked me the fuck out, and to be honest — still does!
When I met then dated then married my husband, the idea of “having babies” turned into “starting a family” and both of us are firmly neutral on the idea. It has never been an active part of our “plan.” He knows who he married: a feminist who kept her last name, a career-driven Capricorn moon with aspirations to write and travel and put herself first after a life of being the eldest daughter. He’s also respectful in realizing that the whole process is pretty unfairly stacked against me: I’m the one that has to bake the thing, feed the thing while wrecking my body in the process both during and after, give up rosé and coffee for the damn thing, deal with the aftermath that no one wants to talk about, because why would we want to talk about lady emotional turmoil stuff? Eww.
When I picture my future, I don’t necessarily see kids. I have had dreams about them existing—notably, twin boys multiple times and once it was a girl. I won’t put too much woo woo belief into that, though, because even if I ever wound up doing it once, there is no way in hell I’d want to do it multiple times.
And I know there are other options. We could adopt, if we really felt the pull to be parents. We could use surrogacy, if we won the lottery LOL. (This is actually the most viable option to me, if I really, really, really wanted to procreate and my mental health and body issues just would not let me do it myself. If surrogacy was more affordable and less condemned by society, I could see myself being much more likely to “want” kids.) But the fact that we are 36 and almost 34 and haven’t plotted this into our road map, well, tells you enough, I think.
Due to the recent resurgence of the Far Right Trying to Ruin Your Life, I have had some emotions bubble back up and I thought a little sassy post could help me cope.
This is not a post about having kittens vs. kiddos (though I think we know which ones are cuter). This is not a post about how “I am better than you because I am child-free.” I actually know plenty of people with kids! And I am happy for those people and their small people! I am happy to see friends and co-workers have babies after knowing they went through traumatic situations trying, or had to use IVF or they really, really wanted a family and they really, really deserve it. I will spoil my friends’ offspring as if they are my own, if or when they exist. I will happily be the cool aunt in California. I will support each and every woman I know in her choice to have children or to be child-free. Why? Because I am not a fucking weirdo obsessed with what others do with their life. But more on that later.
This post isn’t even just about cats, which I have always loved and will always love. Not a lot of pics of me holding baby dolls, but do you know what does populate photo albums? Pics of me with cats. Me standing up against a bed, having literally freshly learned to stand so that I could look at the cat on the bed. Me holding Simba. Me holding Nala. Me holding Pidgy. So many pictures of me with my soul kitty, Jasmine.
I could probably lift a small sedan or Fiat for my cats. I would spend every dollar I have to save my cats. One time, there was an active tornado warning that wasn’t just Ohio being dramatic, and Ryan texted me that I should probably get the girls and go to the basement. To do this, I had to chase 3 cats around the two-story house, for multiple minutes, and then trick them into staying in the basement that they suddenly very badly wanted to escape even though they had spent almost all of their little lives trying to break the rule of “no cats in the basement.” Mia was hiding under the bed and would not come out so that I could SAVE HER FROM THIS VERY REAL TWISTER. What did this child-free bitch do? I flipped that fucking mattress so fast off that bed and could have tossed the full metal bed frame out the window in one fell She-Hulk swoop if I had to. I don’t even know how I did it. The room literally looked like the tornado itself had been there. Did Mia look at me like, “Uh, what the fuck?” Yuh. But did that bushy butt get safely down to the basement with her screamy sisters where we all sat for 30 minutes before the weather dude was like “Never mind, we’re good!”. Yes. And only 2 of us got smacked.
Trust me, I love cats.
I love cats enough to know that the “crazy cat lady” trope is bullshit. Choosing to be child-free doesn’t mean you have chosen to have cats? Please.
No, this post is just me, typing it out, a little furiously, thinking more critically, kinda manically, about why I might maybe probably don’t want to have children… even though, really, I don’t owe anyone a blog-size explanation.
Anyway.
They are expensive. Uh, I’m sorry, but my husband and I are two college-educated Millennials living in Southern California. How the fuck are we supposed to afford a child? Two, probably, at once because twins run so deep down his family roots. (Cue that scene of Adam Scott doing panicky math in “Parks & Rec.”)
Do you know what I would rather spend that money on? A house, for one. With an extra bedroom for guests (we live in CAL I FOR NIA) and an office for each of us and a damn back patio. A honeymoon, maybe, or generally travel, for another. We never got a honeymoon thanks to COVID and then moving 2,300 miles across the country. (One of those was worth it, though.) We’ve also never been out of the country and I would love to do that before, I don’t know, some orange idiot gets the country blacklisted on every other country’s list?
And you know what? I’d like a Chanel bag. I’d like some Celine sunnies. Emily took me to Sézane and now my own damn wish list has been taunting me. I like nice things, sue me.
Plus, Ryan wants to build a computer, buy another bass or two. We will need more space for all those things, so, again — a house would be nice! Our current hellscape simply does not allow for people (Millennials) to balance careers and wants and families. I would never, ever bring a child into this world feeling like I couldn’t support it. So that’s step one.
Ugh BRB, kinda hungry, think I’ll go spend $14 on avocado toast.
The planet is burning?! I don’t think that “but the political and actual climate is so fucked” is going to stop anyone who wants to have kids from actually having kids, but I think it’s worth bringing up. Given that there is literally almost always a pregnant lady or soon-to-be-pregnant lady or plan to forcibly impregnate ladies in any apocalypse-themed TV show or movie, we know that people will be banging without protection even when the acid rain melts all our faces off. The next generation will always have their own battles, real or “is this real?”
Will the sun eventually burst into flames? Sure. Will “science” even still be a thing by the time that actually happens or will people have torched it out of existence? Unsure!
No one I know who wants to pop out a mini-me seems all too concerned about that. I don’t say that to be derogatory or judgmental. I think it’s just that the desire to be a parent is stronger than the fear of being anxious about that shit, and I can’t say I have ever really experienced the former but am actively living in the latter.
Do I really want to bring a daughter into a world where her worth is only determined by men and by how well her ovaries work? Who will have to STILL complain about equal pay, about other people making decisions about her body?
What if my child was gay, or trans? Ryan and I would love them and do whatever we could for them, of course, but would the rest of the world? Would the rest of their own family?
Every summer is now the hottest summer, and the old people in power aren’t doing anything about it. Will your children be able to breathe the air? Will they know what a “tiger” is, will they swim in an ocean? I don’t know.
And if we ever did have children, we sure as hell are not raising them in the rural Midwest, where I had to grow up. (Population: 600.) I want them to have better opportunities than me, earlier than me. I don’t want their high school counselor to laugh in their face when they say their dream college is Columbia. I want them to meet people with different experiences, and not just be surrounded by pathetic sports team coaches cosplaying as teachers who think having debates about whether a woman can be president because she goes through menopause is an appropriate use of the curriculum. I want them to grow up on a street surrounded by their friends, to be able to walk safely to school. I want them and their friends to be able to come home safely from school.
When I think about the shit little kids have to deal with, I just don’t know that I could deal.
Being pregnant sounds… very bad! This is the big one. I HATE the idea of having to be the incubator. I just know I would be miserable. Beyond the decidedly gross idea of all your internal organs having to animorph for this invasion of privacy, I am also someone who has struggled with disordered eating and body dysmorphia her entire life. So I am very, very scared of what being pregnant would mean for my mental health. I am not positive in my own strength to be able to bear it for 9 months. I have enough work to do on myself, and I don’t think that forcing my body to grow another body is a good idea.
Also, every dude I work with who has a kid is like, “Yeah, my wife is a SUPERHERO. She gave birth but ALMOST DIED. Could only eat ICE CHIPS for 36 hours. Blood clots almost made the doctors CUT OFF HER LEGS if we could even FIND A DOCTOR TO LISTEN TO US but she’s fine. Superhero shit!” Um, no thank you?
And that is assuming you’re even lucky enough to carry a baby to full term. I don’t feel like it’s appropriate for me to speak on that. But even though some would categorize me as an evil child-free hag, know that my heart breaks for women who want babies and cannot have them. Women who want them should be allowed to have them, just as women who do not want them should be allowed to not want them.
And, like, apparently your feet swell, your blood pressure soars, there are like 38 ways you could die during any trimester or literally during labor, the thing might be upside down anyway, and you shit yourself after.
I am just….like….I am very, very good on all of that..
To bring up women’s rights, again — there is also the abortion issue, which must be raised. It must always be raised. What if I had a pregnancy gone wrong, and I died because the doctor was too scared to do what I wanted, or was told they could not? My life is not worth more than the life of a doomed or already dead fetus? My husband should have to lose both of us because the political system is meddling too much in the medical system?
I don’t imagine my fear of being pregnant will go away, ever, and should I ever choose to get pregnant, it will be because I have a loving, supportive partner and a medical expert on call and a medical system I can trust. Only one of those things is true right now for me, and none of those things are true for a lot of women.
Say it with me: Women’s rights are human rights. Okay? Okay. Damn.
A note on boundaries: There are other factors at play in my life that obviously influence my choice to have kids or not, but I don’t feel like yapping about that just yet in protection of my own peace.
AND LASTLY—-
I just don’t know if I want to, and that’s none of your goddamn business.
My intention wasn’t to turn this into some angry feminist rant against men named Just Dance Vance, even though he is wrong and ugly and thinks Middletown, Ohio (Population: 50,000) is Appalachia and is an evil troll. Another think piece from me in what will surely be another 4 months of think pieces from people with actual audiences isn’t going to change anyone’s minds.
(I’ve already done the work to weed out the bullshitters.)
Plus, honestly, I find the popular culture representation of cat ladies so exhausting. It’s another rant for another time, but the “crazy cat ladies for Kamala” Etsy shop-looking shit is cringe, hon. The Taylor Swift comparisons are crinnnnge (she and killatrav are not voting how you think they’re voting—she’s a billionaire and he’s a rich football player from a red state, let’s be so fucking for real). It’s all a pink pussyhat shy from pushing away the voters we really, really need.
But… I mean, also… if it gets that ‘”Find Your Tribe” TJ Maxx sign sector of WW activated for our cackling Californian candidate? Then so be it. I take it back.
CAT LADIES FOR KAMALA, (NO) BABY.
Anyway. Here’s what I’ll say about male politicians, or any politicians, who think they should have a say in what women do with their bodies, in what couples choose to do with their futures, in whether child-free people matter as much as people with any or too many children: Fuuuuuck you. Fuck you. Fuckity fuck you, for real.
Because this isn’t just about the “childless cat ladies,” is it? That ding-dong may have done the dumbest thing first (piss a lot of women off), but it’s really just a soft launch for people smarter and more sinister than him to show us their truly despicable worldview of being so obsessed with other people making independent choices about their independent selves to live their life in a way “they” don’t like.
Listen.
I don’t give an unburied Caitlin-sized cat shit about who you want to love, how you want to identify on a driver’s license or which restroom you want to use, if or when or how you decide to populate this crumbling planet. You know why? Because it’s your own damn business. It’s your own damn right. It’s your body, your heart, your life to live. And it’s really pathetic to me to see people who can’t even keep their own home in order always off trying to control someone else’s shit. The call is coming from inside the house, and it’s leaving a voicemail: a “difference in opinion” is okay when we’re talking about pizza toppings, or seasons of “Lost.” (But, also: extra pepperoni and all seasons are good, shut up.)
I guess I just think it is not an “opinion” when another human’s humanity is on the line…? Crazy college-brainwashed babbling, I know.
But isn’t it, uh, concerning that people who believe guns have more rights than their own children, that boogeymen dressed in drag are gonna corrupt children they don’t even know or don’t even have in their lives, that children in Gaza deserve to die and starve and perish… are the same people who want to force you to have children? Yikes! They “care” so much about “children” but don’t want to give you a choice, because it’s “wrong” … but they’re also choosing to actively cause harm to women, children and to adults who are someone else’s… child. Yikes again!
Why do you care so much about my shit? My preferences? My life plan? It’s weird! (We are all saying that part out loud now, BTW: it’s weird.)
Whether I ever have kids or not, I will always:
Support women’s rights, because “The Handmaid’s Tale” is still fucking fiction, for now.
Support my queer friends, because if I didn’t, then I wouldn’t really be a friend, would I?
Support someone making choices for themselves, because whatthefuck do I even know about them? No one knows you better than yourself. No one. Not fucking D*n*ld Tr*mp, not couch fucker JD Vance, not Kamala Harris. You know you. And that ownership is the -free in being child-free, to me.
I still don’t know if I want to have kids, but I do know I have to make a resy for my neighborhood cat cafe’s “kitten palooza” next time–this lady needs another damn cat. Is that crazy?
hi, i’m holly. 