Believe it or not, I actually don’t mind kids. Not any more or less than I mind people in general, because they’re honestly just little people. Some are more mature than others, but the same can be said for so-called adults as well. Regardless, I am never, ever having any of my own. Why?
Pregnancy scares me.
Simple, but true. The idea of growing another human being inside me, then passing said human being, makes me want to pass out. There’s really no way around that one.
I’ve already raised a family.
I’m the oldest of five kids, with the youngest one being almost 17 years younger than I am. With Mom being more or less a single parent, that makes me Mommy #2. I don’t begrudge any of my siblings, but I’ve had more than enough child raising to fill any biological urges that might crop up.
No one needs these genes.
I am a BIG mess of a crazy, as is every woman in my family. You know the whole “If you met my mom, you’d understand?” I’m not going to be that mom. I have no need to subject anyone else to this magical mess that is my personal bio-chemistry.
There are enough people in the world as it is.
In the very rare event that I decide motherhood is for me, I will adopt. There are plenty of kids out there that need a good home, and if I decide I need kids, that’s the route for me. This world doesn’t need anymore people when those that are already in it aren’t having their needs met.
It’s my life, and I don’t have to.
Probably the silliest and most selfish reason of all – I’m just not interested in having kids. I’m interested in writing novels, seeing the world, learning to belly dance, possibly opening my own bakery – so many things that would just fall by the way side for the twenty years it takes to transform a human from helpless infant to helpless young adult. I’m more interested in living my life for me, as is my partner. We don’t want to kids because we want to be ourselves first, not whenever we’re released from the life sentence that is parenthood.