When my husband and I met eight years ago, we were both set on never having kids. He’d spent most of his adult life being a caretaker, and I’m an angry eldest daughter with a wanderlust that keeps me up at night.
I know what it’s like to love and take care of children. We’re part of the village, helping to raise our two nephews, one of whom we lived with for a period of time when he was a toddler. I’m the oldest of eight grandchildren, and my youngest cousin and I are sixteen years apart. I learned how to change a diaper when I was ten, and I’ve worked with children throughout my teens and early twenties.
Everyone would tell me that once I turned thirty, things would probably change, that something “just happens” where you start wanting to have a baby. That didn’t exactly happen, but around two years ago we started warming up to the idea. We agreed that it might be nice to have one child, but we refuse to do it until we “feel ready.” I know no one ever feels fully ready, but we’re willing to wait until we feel more stable, financially and otherwise, even if that means risking not being able to have a kid at all.
2026 was supposed to be our last hurrah year before making the final decision. Joe turned 40 in March, and in less than two weeks, we’re finally going to Italy. It’s a trip we knew we needed, just in case we decide to try to start a family in the new year. But with 2027 rapidly approaching, I can honestly say that I don’t feel any closer to wanting it, and I know Joe doesn’t either. I can feel the scale tipping back over to no, for now at least, and I feel relieved.
I know we’d be great parents, and sometimes I envision us traveling the world with one chic, museum-loving daughter child. But I also have this nagging feeling that, while I’d be filled with love, I’d also feel trapped and resentful. I like the idea of being one of those chill moms who reads Bringing Up Bébé, but I’m an anxious wreck when my nephews stub a toe. As I write this, I’m literally harassing my sister via text for updates on my older nephew’s fever.
Last week, while helping my friends out at a photoshoot, the photographer brought her gorgeous blonde-haired, blue-eyed six-month-old baby boy, and I swear my ovaries started vibrating. Cool as a cucumber, she worked while the baby was strapped to her. At one point, he nursed while she photographed the models. I was in awe and, dare I say, a little jealous? I want to want this.
It took everything in me not to beg her to hold him. The thought of smelling the top of an infant’s head while they’re scrunched up on my chest is like heaven to me. But the thought of toys everywhere while Miss Rachel blares in the background, boogers of varying colors and sizes, and spending my Saturdays at a soccer field? That’s the thing nightmares are made of. And, like, I really want to hike the Cotswold Way next year. How does one do that with a small child?
It’s like I have baby fever, but I don’t want a baby. Or maybe I want a baby, but I don’t want to be a mom?
When most people think of the child-free, they picture a person who loathes kids. Someone who complains when babies cry on airplanes and doesn’t understand why their mom friends have changed. Most child-free-by-choice women I know report never having felt very nurturing or maternal, and want to pluck out their eyelashes one by one every time there’s a kid in the vicinity.
But me? I love children. I’m in awe of mothers and motherhood. I want to hold your baby (please let me hold your baby!) and hear about your birth story, and I’m fascinated by all the benefits of breastfeeding. Every time I come across a woman giving birth on my Instagram feed, I watch the whole thing and inevitably sob. On paper, I should want this, right?
Maybe my biological clock is broken or needs new batteries, or maybe, after indulging in all the wine and pasta I could handle in Italy, the alarm will ring, and I’ll start humping my husband’s leg. But if that doesn’t happen, I think I’ll be okay living my life as someone who isn’t a mom.
Joe and I love the life we’re building together. My bucket list is pages long, and my manifestation list is delusionally ambitious. I can’t help but admit that it all seems more possible to achieve without the responsibility of being a parent.
And even if I never have my own children, I don’t see myself as child-free, but rather as someone who can give love, resources, and guidance to even more children than if I had my own to focus on. I want to have an open-door policy with my nephews and take them on their first international trips when they’re teenagers. I want my best friends’ daughters to call me for advice when they’re thirteen and have their first crushes. I want to babysit my neighbor’s kids when the nanny calls in sick. Because I think it’s all of our responsibility to care for all the children in the world, even if we don’t have any of our own.
If you want to form a parasocial relationship with me, you can find me on Instagram and TikTok.
This made me cry Kristina 🥺
After I had my son, I really worked to prepare myself for a baby fever that never came (except for more recently when a very cute bb girl gripped my finger and I almost fell over!!!!!!!)! You just never know! I'm so sure the choice you'll make will be ultimately right for you and I will personally validate you regardless! The love I feel for my son genuinely astounds me all the time and I'm glad I've felt it. And yet I think- if I had not known him, I just literally wouldn't know. I would have other big loves- people, places, things.
Also the boogers are so gross. And soccer- uuuuuuugh!!!!! There's nothing I miss more about my pre-child life than Sundays where everyone leaves me aloooone.