Let’s talk about kids. Regular readers know that I am lucky enough to have a bunch in my life. The oldest can’t really be classified a kid anymore, but they will still be one for a while to me, I think. But as much as I love them, I don’t have any of my own, and my conditions have a lot to do with that, just not the way you think.
My mom always knew she wanted kids. My dad wasn’t quite as solid on the idea, but he came around. My sibling also always knew they wanted a big family, from the time they were little. And that’s exactly what they got.
For a time, that’s what I thought I wanted, too. A few years ago, I found this journal entry I’d written when I was young. Think mid-twenties. It was a single sheet of paper. I don’t have anything from before or after, so I have no context except perhaps for the fact that both of my best friends (at the time) as well as both my sibling and my father, had gotten married in the two years before that entry. If I had to guess, I would say I was feeling a little left behind. Basically, it said that if I wanted to get married and have kids by the time I was 32, I better up my dating game.
When I re-discovered it more recently, I laughed out loud. It didn’t sound at all like the person I had become. It was so . . . conventional. I remember thinking about kids as I approached the time when it would become unsafe for someone with my mix of conditions to carry a baby, and I remember that I could dredge up no particular regret that I didn’t have one. By that time, I had about a decade of better understanding of the energy and patience it took to raise a person. I knew that was something I didn’t have, partially because of my energy-draining conditions, but also because I have never been a high-energy person.
But even more than that, I had a problem with commitment. I have for a long time, and that has everything to do with my conditions. Every time I have made plans for anything, a new diagnosis or a new reaction to treatment or a loved one’s issue has come along to blow those plans out of the water. There were times when I was growing up that we weren’t 24 hours past one medical crisis before the next one came along and everything had to be adjusted again. That feeling didn’t particularly abate as I grew into adulthood, even as I wrote that journal entry. It only added things like a dread of that eternal entry-level interview question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I had trouble committing to any relationship, whether it was romantic or even just where I was living. If something lasted beyond a few months, it was by accident of comfort zone.
So, it really came down to two things: my complete lack of ability to commit to anything and my sincere belief that if you are going to raise a child, it should be something you want with every fiber of your being. It’s something a prospective parent should think about often, dream about when they consider their future. I never did, and without both of those – well, either of those -- plus the high risk any pregnancy would have been for me at any age, or even the effect an adoption would have on my conditions, I decided around five years ago that I was ok with where my non-kid life was going.
I’m not going to say that I don’t revisit those feelings from time to time, but the thoughts are often brief and revolve around the fantasy version of kids, not the reality. The only remaining worry I have is who I will lean on as I grow old. Even those thoughts are brief. I have handled every new symptom thrown at me by myself, including several associated with aging, and I have managed. I don’t know why that would change 20 or 30 years from now.
It has helped, perhaps, that for most of my child-bearing years three of my four closest friends also chose not to have kids (one reversed course later – he let me know his change of heart by sending me a sonogram picture). I’m sure the existing relationships I have with kids helps, too. I think it’s safe to say that on the kid front I have everything I want. I play when I want to, chill with them when I want to, and then I come home, where it’s just me and my monster.