I Don’t Want to Have Children Because I Hate Them

Written by Anonymous

This is a touchy subject. What greater purpose can a woman serve on this earth than to bring forth another life? I mean it’s the only thing that we do that men can’t, aside from menstruate. Although, if you met some of the men I’ve met, you’d really wonder about that fact.

But it’s time to stop hiding (sort of) and admit the truth to at least myself. I don’t want to have children. I don’t like kids. Kids actually bring anger out of me.

I’ve thought long and hard about my disdain for children and it isn’t so much that I hate all children. I’ve worked with kids many times through my career, most of the people in my family have kids that I love, and almost all my siblings are proud parents.

What I hate is the idea of children.

I hate that they aren’t self sufficient. I hate that they can’t control their emotions. Or their bladders. They’re just so damn needy. Kids are also incredibly rude. Some people laugh it off and say that kids are just honest, but let’s be honest with ourselves. Kids are fucking rude.

And I understand that it’s because they’re tiny creatures that haven’t learned the basics yet, but after spending my entire life learning and relearning the basic rules of human existence, I find that I’m far too exhausted to spend another half of my life teaching them to someone I can never get rid of.

Kids are also expensive. They’re expensive before they’re even out of the womb. Doctor’s visits, maternity clothes, food cravings, hemorrhoid creams, creams for stretch marks, prenatal vitamins – kids have a laundry list of things they need before they take their first breath.

But after all the grades and the papers and the college degree, what have I really given back to my parents? Not a damn thing.

My parents would never let me see it, but we grew up poor. Sometimes just to get the core items we needed to get through a week became a struggle, and yet they gave me a beautiful childhood full of adventure. They were also proponents of education so they worked their hardest to make sure that every step of the way I had a chance at the best education possible. But in our area which was full to bursting with low income families, a half decent education meant private school. Public schools in my neighborhood were literal recruitment grounds for either the military or the gangs. My family poured thousands of dollars into my education from tuition all the way down to appropriate uniform shoes and socks. They made sure that if there was a school trip, I didn’t miss it, because any chance to get cultured was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed.

The only thing my parents ever asked was that I get good grades. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t contribute to the household account so long as when report cards got mailed home there was nothing less than a B in every column.

But after all the grades and the papers and the college degree, what have I really given back to my parents? Not a damn thing. They always told me that what they did for me was considered an investment. Well it’s looking like a shitty investment. Sorry, mom and dad.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pouring money into a carbon copy of myself. I’d rather turn around and reinvest into the people that spent their lives putting food in my mouth and clothes on my back. I want to give my parents the life they should’ve been living while they were filling their social calendars with parent teacher conferences.

Now, you would think this reasoning would be enough to give me a free pass from the people that are waiting patiently underneath my vagina for a baby to fall out. Turns out it doesn’t. Instead, my refusal to procreate is met with mounds and mounds of shame.

I actually have to feel ashamed about not wanting to reproduce.

The shame comes from other moms, family members, strangers with opinions, talk show hosts, actual children themselves. But the greatest shame comes from the man I’m seeing. We’re approaching that place in our relationship where marriage and children are a viable option. I’m also still within my healthy child bearing years. I must say I find it an oxymoron that there is such a thing as healthy child bearing years when we consider the horror stories that come from delivery rooms. As much love as I’ve given him none of it equates to the son he’s waiting to hold. Not even just any kind of child but a son specifically. We’ve talked about names, child friendly neighborhoods, diaper duties, all of that shit that girls are supposed to be excited about.

You know what flashes through my mind when we talk about all that? The destruction of a body that I have worked hard for as it makes room for another selfish little boy. The death of my sex life. Most vividly, I see myself sitting at home with a crying baby while my husband is out somewhere staring at women that look the way I do right now.

Are some of these visions irrational? Yes, of course they are because they’re manufactured by fear. Does this realization make me think that a child might not be so bad? Please read the above paragraphs if you really have to ask yourself that question.

The world is such a vast place and I want to see as much of it as I can. I’d rather not do it with a baby strapped to my back.

If you’re a woman with a child, I wish only the best for you. If that child loves you even a quarter as much as I love my mother, then you are going to be set for life with more love than you can handle. More than that though, I ask that you stop looking at me and other women like me as if we are some sort of freakish anomalies. Mom life is not for everyone and that is a simple truth. It doesn’t make me selfish and it doesn’t make me some horrible woman.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t want to continue to be forced into conversations wherein other people try to convince me about the true joy of having children. I don’t want to hold someone else’s baby for longer than necessary. I don’t want to continue attending baby showers.

I don’t want to have children.