I recently attended a close relative’s wedding in Philadelphia. The ceremony was hipster-clad with string lights, bearded best men, and red wine-stained mason jars. It was beautiful, personal, and full of disturbingly well-dressed children. As I surreptitiously shoved six or seven pumpkin croissants into the inner pocket of the tweed blazer I forced my father to let me wear, I caught my aunt’s bewildered gaze. She came over, put her hand on my shoulder, and sighed in a way to let me know that if I could only give up my pastry-hoarding tendencies, all of this could be mine someday. A little blonde boy who looked like he had jumped out of a J. Crew catalogue began to gyrate/convulse/thrash dance while my aunt and every other female guest cooed, goo-ed, and then looked at me to follow suit. I could have made an “oo” sound, I could have clapped and cheered and set myself on fire because this little boy foaming at the mouth to the beat of Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” was just “too cute”. Instead, I stole three more croissants, threw two in my mouth, and picked out the crumbs from inside my bra. I have no maternal instinct.
Now you may say to me, “Emma, just because you don’t want children at 21 years old, doesn’t mean you won’t want them when you’re 30.” Or you might go with the age-old, “Emma you might not like those children, but you’ll like your kid.” I have considered these appeals. I have imagined that ten years into the future, I will look at a child and my ovaries will swell with the love and adoration that my female friends seem to experience every time one walks by us on Thayer. But I know this will never be. When I see children, I just see squishy masses of jam-soaked fingers and their pathological predilection for eating glue.
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I want to like kids and I completely respect all of the hard work that mothers around the world put in to raise reasonably decent people. The fact that women can produce life is one of the more amazing things human beings can accomplish. I want to want to be a part of this womb sisterhood of womb people. But I don’t now and I don’t think I ever will. When I’m 30, and I’m at your wedding (I’m definitely invited), I won’t look down and rub my lower abdomen wishing it were full of life. I will look down and wish I could use it as extra storage for all of the croissants I couldn’t fit into my purse. I have no maternal instinct and I’m at peace with it. Babysitting inquiries can be emailed to Emma_Starr@brown.edu.
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