Rachel Davis

When you’re female, anywhere near 30, and childless, people feel curious—and entitled—to know why. So instead of telling random lies to random strangers individually, I’ve decided to be honest with the masses. No more excuses: I’m not selfish, I’m not immature, I’m not infertile.

What’s the real problem? I’m scared.

I’m scared that my children will act the same way I did when I was a child. I’m scared they’ll humiliate me in public places, that they’ll expect their food to be ready and their beds to be made and their laundry to be done. I’m scared they’ll ask questions that I won’t know how to answer. Or that they’ll sneak out at night and turn me into the worrying, questioning, lecturing, and over-stressed parent that used to annoy me so thoroughly when I used to sneak out at night. I’m scared that, despite my best efforts, my kids will eventually make a mistake or two, that I’ll be left forever questioning what I could have or should have or might have done differently. I see families walking down the street, children in tow, and I wonder if they really understand what they’ve gotten themselves into. When I imagine myself with children, all I can imagine is lugging a heavy diaper bag while struggling to push a stroller that contains only blankets and toys because my screaming child prefers to be carried. I say it again: I’m scared.

Everything I read and hear—and everyone I talk to about the subject—confirms that parenting is difficult. It reminds me of the Peace Corps: “the toughest job you’ll ever love.” But how do they know I’ll love it? And what if I don’t—I can’t just quit, can I? I’m afraid that being a parent is a secret joke the world plays on you, that all the other parents “get it.” After all, if parenting is as tough as parents say it is, then why do so many of them continue to have more children? They must already know that their lives are ruined, so they have more children as a cunning way to convince all the childless people of the world that parenthood isn’t so bad. Then, when the childless people start having children, all the parents get together and laugh. “We got another one,” they say.

People have come up with all sorts of crazy arguments to relieve my fears. But here’s the thing: their arguments don’t work for me. You can talk to me all day long about “rewards” or “love” or “responsibility” or “pride” or any of the thousand other supposed benefits of parenthood. It doesn’t do anything for me: I have enough love and rewards already. What I really need is freedom from the rantings and wailings and demands of a child that I might not know how to handle. And what I really need isn’t responsibility or pride—it’s relief from the stresses and embarrassments children create. Allow me to illustrate:

When I was very young (long before I turned into the teenager I now dread having), I told my mom that if she didn’t have me, she wouldn’t know anything. And boy, Mom was truly lucky to have such a smart daughter. Before I was even potty-trained, I was able to quote complex literary stylings from many of the books she read to me. For example, when she took me grocery shopping and refused to buy me candy (how dare she?), I screamed—loudly enough for everyone in the six-aisle grocery store to hear, “You’re a dum-ditty-dum-ditty-dum-dum-dum!”

But wait—it gets better. My self-important, mouthy, and know-it-all teenage years produced a number of heated arguments during which Mom could only be described (at the time) as completely unreasonable, out of touch, and ridiculous, and during which I could only be described (at the time) as overflowing with grace and composure. Though I’ve long since forgotten the reasons for these arguments, Mom’s eerie words of warning have never escaped my mind, a torturous prophesy of days to come: “Just wait until you have a daughter who’s just like you,” she’d say. My reply foreshadowed an even more torturous future: “I hope I do,” I snapped. “At least I’ll know how to handle her!” When I think of that conversation now, I’m reminded of another bit of wisdom Mom often shared with me: “Be careful what you wish for,” she’d warn. I make a plea right now to the Gods-of-Getting-What-You-Deserve: I’m sorry. I take it back. I won’t know how to handle her. My mom was right. And I’m scared.

My parents did a good job of convincing me that there is a God. That God, I learned, was an all-loving, all-knowing, and all-forgiving God who also just so happened to be a fair and just God. I’m scared: if this God really is fair and just, then I’ll most certainly end up with a fair and just deal, won’t I? I’ll most certainly end up with a daughter who knows everything, a daughter who constantly reminds me just how little I know. She’ll probably be a bright girl, and I’ll probably have a hard time convincing her that I’m a bright girl, too.

Since I’m still relatively young, it has only recently occurred to me that my parents might not be the fools I’ve made them out to be in my mind for so many years. When I was a teenager, they were dictators—hell-bent on ruining my life and making my decisions. When I was in college, they were, in my mind, much like antiques—charming in their own way, but really too old and out-of-fashion to be of much use. Now as a young professional, I see my parents as wise, funny, and understanding people with almost boundless senses of humor. So when I think about having children, I think about my parents. They did a fantastic job, but what did they get for it? A mouthy, inconsiderate, and sometimes malicious daughter who didn’t realize what a great job they were doing until years after she was out of their house. I say it again: I’m scared.

What makes me most scared? I can only assume that, being a bright girl herself, my mom is right: I’ll likely have a daughter just like me one day. And I guess that’s not the worst thing in the world—I just want my daughter to understand that I’m not the worst thing in the world, either.