Karen Collins/Trunk Archive

I've never wanted children, but I've always had names picked out for them anyway. Some might say that's a sign that I live in some sad state of unconscious regret now that, having freshly turned 45, I haven't had them. But it mostly just means there are pets I've wanted to call Lucy and Thomas but didn't because I was irrationally inclined to save those names on the off chance they might be put to human use one day. I say irrationally because this is basically tantamount to holding on to a pair of ankle harnesses in case I suddenly want to go bungee jumping—something that ranks about 500,000th on my bucket list. But that's how deeply the motherhood mandate is imprinted in women's brains. We try to talk ourselves into it. Sometimes we even let others talk us into it. Even those of us who aren't programmed for it are prone to try to overwrite our code.

Some women who grow up ambivalent about children have an aha moment, when they realize that they want them more than anything—or, less commonly but no less intensely, that they don't. For me, the journey to "no" was more gradual. As a child, I exhibited many classic traits of a future nonmother-by-choice: I eschewed toy baby carriages and preferred stuffed animals to dolls. I babysat in my teens solely as a moneymaking venture and quit the business as soon as I could for a job at the smoothie stand in the mall. In my 20s, not wanting to be a mother felt like a condition I might grow out of someday—like my distaste for bell peppers. By the time I was in my 30s, though, nothing had changed. I tried not to dismiss people who said, "You'll feel differently when you meet the right person." But now that I'm in my 40s and married to as right a person as anyone is likely to find, I can see that this condition is simply part of my coding.

My husband, for his part, has occasional moments of envy when our friends' children do something particularly impressive or charming (such as leave for college), but I am grateful to have found someone who loves me enough not to talk me into something that is not in my heart to do. I was nearly 40 when we married. A man whose top priority is having biological children does not marry an almost 40-year-old woman—particularly one who's about as interested in IVF and donor eggs as she is in, well, bungee jumping. Egg freezing now is a game changer for women—at least those who have the resources. But I am endlessly appreciative that the technology wasn't as readily available when my eggs were at their optimal freezability. I suspect I would have been tormented by yet another opportunity to doubt myself, to worry more about changing my mind in the future than knowing my mind in the present.

I know: Plenty of people who think they don't want kids wind up being happy they had them anyway. Even women who become pregnant at the least convenient time often say it's the best thing that ever happened to them. And in a lot of cases, I believe them. I realize there's a danger in overthinking things. But when it comes to the decision of whether to create a human being from scratch and deposit it into a world that's wondrous in some ways but chaotic and terrifying in others, I'd argue that there's an awful lot of underthinking going on—and not just from the people most frequently accused of it. I'm not talking about the pregnant teens, the Octomoms, and the fecund lotharios who occasionally turn up in the news, such as the 33-year-old Tennessee man who requested a break in child- support payments for the 30 children he's fathered with 11 women. I'm talking about the underthinkers who have children not so much because they want to but because it's what you do, because not doing so is (wait for it) … selfish. I'm talking about people who have children to improve their marriages, to please their families, or out of fear that they'll regret it later if they don't.

If I had a child today, I'm sure I would love her more than I can comprehend. But I'm also pretty sure I wouldn't love my life. I'm lucky. I have an extraordinarily satisfying life as a writer. My career is not just a career but an expression of the very things that define and nourish my existence. I could probably find a way to balance it all with the joy of motherhood but, to be honest, I don't want to. That's not an equilibrium I'm interested in finding. I love the spare, quiet rooms of my grown-up house. I love teaching and traveling and having long conversations with people I've never met and may never meet again. I love the idea of contributing to young people's lives without being anyone's mother, of feeding their souls in ways that mothers, by definition, cannot. And while it's entirely possible that I don't know what I'm talking about (this also applies to bungee jumping), I can't think of anything more unfair than having a child for the sole purpose of finding out what I'm missing.

I can, however, imagine what I'd miss if I'd taken a different path: the tranquility of my morning coffee, interrupted only by the singing of the birds and the roar of the neighborhood leaf blowers; the late dinners that allow my husband to stay at the office until 8 P.M. while I catch up with long-distance friends and leisurely prepare a hodgepodge of a meal. I'd even miss the perverse pleasure I take in answering "no" whenever someone asks, "Do you have children?"

"No, I don't," I say with a smile. "It just wasn't for me."

And guess what? There's so much else out there that is.

, an anthology edited by Meghan Daum, is out March 31

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