Selfish, Shallow, and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids is a collection of essays explaining just that. Even though Meghan Daum, the editor of this collection, intends this title to be taken facetiously, I still dislike it. It seems less like a sly joke and more like an admission, that we, the childfree, are indeed all those things. We are not.



The women and (three) men writers in this collection explain their various reasons for not having children. Their reasons v

Selfish, Shallow, and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids is a collection of essays explaining just that. Even though Meghan Daum, the editor of this collection, intends this title to be taken facetiously, I still dislike it. It seems less like a sly joke and more like an admission, that we, the childfree, are indeed all those things. We are not.



The women and (three) men writers in this collection explain their various reasons for not having children. Their reasons vary a great deal, some stemming from a traumatic childhood and others just saying their professional lives were more important. Some writers expressed a certain wistfulness about their decisions (although with some of them—the women—it was more of a nondecision decision) but all concluded that they were, in the end, happier and more satisfied without children.



What I found very interesting about this collection of essays is how these writers’ reasons varied so widely. Some had political reasons, some were terrified that they’d be awful mothers, some weren’t up for the challenges of being a parent. Many of them were irritated by the idea that they are shallow or selfish or self-absorbed, noting quite correctly that many women (and men) decide to become parents for their own selfish reasons. The idea of regret is explored too, that childfree adults will regret missing the unique experiences of raising children. Well, sure, the writers say. But every life is full of regrets. It’s a matter of not letting your regrets control your life. They most definitely don’t regret experiencing the incessant demand for attention, the screaming fits, the messiness, and the lifelong worry of being a parent. What I also find fascinating is how every woman in this collection complains about the social pressure to conceive and the negativity she encountered when she said (often in response to impertinent questioning by a stranger), “No, I don’t have children. I decided it wasn’t the right choice for me.” How they were scorned, pitied and abused for saying such a thing! God forbid a woman make choices for herself. God forbid a woman assert that she knows her own mind and knows what’s best for her. As often is the case (and still is), women are patted on the head and told, no, dear, you’re wrong. I know what’s best for you: get pregnant.



There is an undercurrent of anger in some of these essays based on that perception: that women don’t know their own minds and aren’t really women, aren’t feminine unless they do what god created them to do: give birth. That makes these writers angry and it makes me angry. A woman is not solely defined by her uterus. It is the twenty-first century, yet we still have to have this fight. Men and women can be loving and nurturing people without having any desire to procreate. Women (since it is acceptable for men to remain childless bachelors their whole lives) should not have to prove anything about themselves by having a child. It’s ridiculous. I think this societal pressure to have children was felt by women twenty or so years older than myself, the age of many of the women who wrote the essays. I am childfree by choice and no one has ever shamed me for it. I was once told I was brave for making that choice while I am still young enough to bear children and I thought that was odd. Why is it brave? It’s a matter of knowing yourself. While I enjoy interactions with my friends’ children, I prefer those interactions to be of short duration. While I am obliging, I do not know how to play with kids and I cannot enter their imaginary universe. As these children grow older and are capable of interesting conversations, I find myself genuinely interested in them as individuals, rather than strange little creatures that my friends occasionally want to escape from. I am not a nurturer (unless you mean cats, dogs, horses, pigs, cows, just about anything incapable of mouthing off) and I never want to hold the baby. Offer me a baby and I’ll run. Offer me a kitten and I’m on the floor rolling around with yarn and cooing stupidly, “Oh, aren’t you a cute little kitty?” I see nothing wrong with this.



Even before my friends gave birth, I was well aware of the challenges of raising children. Not just the whole idea of pregnancy and childbirth (yuck), or even the day-to-day duties (cleaning, feeding, clothing), but the idea of raising offspring to become intelligent, caring, conscientious adults. The struggle to educate a child in today’s fucked-up school systems sends me into a panic attack. I’d have to read everything they read and correct the textbooks (if I lived in Texas, I’d have to explain to my child that it was called “slavery” and not the “Atlantic triangular trade”) and try to take my child to museums and create activities that enriched his schooling. I’d also want to protect him from internet pervs, online bullying, in-person bullying, and try to understand his modern tastes in music and television shows. I’d worry he’d be suicidal, use drugs, run with the wrong crowd and, most prosaically, just be an all-around asshole I couldn’t like. If I managed all that and had a decent kid who left home a reasonably intelligent and informed adult, the worry still wouldn’t end till the day I died. I could be capable of all that. I like the idea of reading a child the books I read as a child, shaping his mind (to share my outlook on the world, of course) but unfortunately children aren’t empty vessels waiting to be filled. They already have personalities and strong likes and dislikes and so while you can influence them, more than likely (unless you are a tyrant and/or your child is very impressionable and willing) these small humans already are themselves—you must work with the material you have. I know this. I also know having a child would more than likely kill me intellectually and emotionally, if not physically. So, it is not shallow or selfish to make the decision to not have children. It is an intelligent and informed decision by an adult who is self-aware and knows her limits. What is selfish is deluding yourself that you want a child, then you become a neglectful or abusive parent because you find that, after all, it’s a lot of work.



This is a mixed bag of essays. Some are better written and have more insight than others, but all are worth a read. They get a bit tedious after a while (at least, I thought so), so it’s a positive that the average essay is only ten or so pages long and the book is rather short. There are only so many ways a person can say, hey, it was my decision, not yours and I’m okay with it. So bite me.

