We’ve all been there: strolling down the cramped isles at the grocery store, comparing prices of brand name vs. generic products, trying to maneuver the piece of shit cart that gets jammed, leaving behind a snail trail of black crayon-like residue. In the midst of cart rage, we are trying desperately not to brush against other patrons. Everyone is trying to get the best deals, get in the best check out line where, hopefully, the middle-aged employee doesn’t make too much conversation, and get the hell out. That is, until your ears fall victim to the cry heard ‘round the supermarket.
You typically hear them before you see them. An exhausted parent pushes a cart down the already packed isle, wielding a diaper bag littered with stale Cheerios and warm juice boxes. He or she smiles apologetically as a child raises his voice to the high heavens, praying to the candy Gods that he gets a chocolate bar or some other form of sugary crack. The praying is not done in silence, nor is it respectfully quiet. Instead, the toddler sends his request kicking and screaming, as if that will expedite the process. As onlookers, we exchange the “Thank God I don’t have kids,” “Thank God my kids are grown,” or “Yupp. I’m never having kids” glances.
The tired parent either successfully selects the best brand of peanut butter or gives up, and moves on to a less crowded isle. Is this parent brave? Definitely. Patient? Most certainly. Do I envy the situation? Not in the slightest bit.
It may sound cynical, but I can think of a million other things I’d rather be doing than nurturing a naked, bald version of myself. This isn’t to say that I do not like children. In fact, I’ve spent three months teaching English to Italian students.
Whenever my friends and I get on the topic of motherhood, most of them will beam with excitement; they’ll talk about potential names, about whether or not they’d like to raise them in their hometowns. Meanwhile, I’ve definitely gotten the, “Not having a baby is selfish” and “Don’t worry. You’ll change your mind!” talks.
The funny thing is, I don’t think I will change my mind because:
1. I’m destined to be broke
Unless you’re living in Finland, France, or Norway, you probably have a pretty solid understanding of how many body parts you need to sell to afford your diploma. Let me know if you know someone in the market for a kidney. For a middle class family, it costs around$245,000 to raise a child from birth until they turn 18. That doesn’t even account for the family’s location or the cost of his/her/their college tuition. Add that to my own crippling student loan debt, and you have the motive to pull a Walter White, but I’m no good at science. So, to those of you preaching that I’m selfish, I urge you to reconsider. It’s not a self-centered rationale. It’s a logical one.
2. My job is pretty much going to be my life
In order to pay off waves of debt, I’m going to need to be working all of the time. Best case scenario, I become the next Michele Norris on NPR. Annually, she brings in almost $300,000. As much as I would love to adopt the, “If I can think it, I can do it!” mentality, acquiring a job of that prestige is a little far fetched. More than likely, I would end up working as a news anchor in the United States. That results in an income that is six times less than that of the highly regarded NPR employees. The national average for news anchors is $56,000. Early mornings. Late nights. No time for car seats, soccer games, or school plays in between.
3. Genetics can bite you in the ass
Aside from my cool hair and knack for writing, my child would be 1.5 to 3 times more likely to inherit my anxiety and depression than children whose parents have no mental illness. There was nothing more heartbreaking for my mom than to see my sister and I struggle with both of these things while we grew up. As a parent, you’d move heaven and hell to see your child happy. Sometimes, that’s not enough. I don’t know if I could handle not being able to take away his/her/their pain. That, to me, if selfish: having a child you expect to bring good in the world, all while knowing I’ve probably passed down a back-breaking burden; an invisible illness that most people don’t even register as truly serious.
It’s funny how so many adults and comrades will discredit my feelings on motherhood. Perhaps, they think, I’ll wake up with a yearning to have an occupied womb. Perhaps, a full moon will dominate the night sky, and I will go howling into the woods for a baby. “Nadia,” they plead, “Your baby would be so cute!” “The world needs another version of you!”
But at what cost?
