Motherhood. Not.

There was once a time when I ached for children. I am talking about a physical sensation, bringing about the understanding of wanting something with every fibre of one’s being. Every nerve ending reached out towards having a child and it drove me nuts.

As women, we live within an ocean of chemicals that trigger all kinds of very bizarre reactions. My (almost) demented longing for a baby began at 25, reached its insane peak at the age of 35, with me weeping uncontrollably every time an advert for formula or nappies flashed across the TV screen. It was clear to me that there really was a biological clock and that I could, in fact, hear it ticking.

And then, just like that, it stopped.

I reckon that it’s part of the hormonal soup we float in, sending out a message to use those eggs before they reach their “best before date”. I figure that, realizing that babies were so not going to happen, my body decided that rather than waste its time on pushing me towards procreation, its energy would be better spent elsewhere. Like on craving chocolate, say.



For a while there I did harbor some regret that I didn’t produce a tiny human. I don’t anymore, though. The reason is simple: I’ve become incredibly selfish.



A baby would not fit into my life at all. I like my space. I enjoy lying in and having weekends where my partner do nothing but cuddle in bed with the dogs. I don’t want to spend money on an education or clothing other than my own. I like that my life is my own and I don’t have to squeeze in school runs or karate classes or soccer matches.

And yet, there was once a time in my life when I was looking forward to all that. Packing school lunches, cheering on the sidelines, going to every match, debating competition, prize giving and extra mural class that could be thrown at me. I wanted to read bedtime stories and sing lullabies and change nappies. And I envied my friends and family who had that opportunity.

Now, not so much.

I see how having children has enriched the lives of those around me. They work a little harder than I do. They are more driven, wanting to create a happier life for their offspring. There is a depth to a life with children, from what I’ve observed. So many lessons to learn along the way in the raising of them, watching them grow and become individuals in their own right.

However, I do not feel that I am missing out on too much. I get to be the cool Aunty and cousin, a role that suits me to the ground. It’s a path that I have chosen for myself for my own reasons and it enriches my life in its own way.

Being without my own children doesn’t mean I don’t get to pass a legacy on to another generation. It just means that it gets passed on a little sideways and in my own peculiar way.