Recently, after attending two back-to-back weekends of baby showers, I was asked questions about having a child of my own and was also within earshot of different conversations happening at the showers I attended. The first shower was not unlike any other baby shower I’d been to before – there were pretty decorations, a well-prepared food spread of small bites and baked treats, a mountain of gifts, and a normal number of guests consisting of family and friends of the new parents to be, one of whom was my cousin. Oh, and there were games too. I’ve found that the go-to game for most showers has been trying to guess the size of the new mom’s baby bump (typically by measuring with ribbon or toilet paper).
As the first shower continued, I ended up at a table with my grandmother and great-aunt. They’d asked me about how my career was going and then I was asked, “Do you think you’d ever take a break from your career to have a child?” I paused before responding and replied, “You know, I enjoy my work, making my own money, and having the freedom to do what I want. If God wills a child, it’ll happen. But if not, I’ll be fine.” There was a bit of a brief silence after, and then we started talking about something else. I couldn’t wait to leave the shower, and as soon as the person I went with was ready to go, I was relieved.
I’m the only one in the cousin group I grew up with who doesn’t have kids, so, I guess some family members were genuinely curious... and concerned. I also think the curiosity had slowly been spreading, because shortly after the first shower, I found out that a family friend had asked my father if he thought I’d ever have kids.
When the second shower arrived for a close friend, I remember thinking, “I wouldn’t be sad if I didn’t have to attend another gender reveal or baby shower again.” Not because I’m upset, bitter, or struggling with any feelings about being child free, but more so because being a mom isn’t a huge priority to or for me. These events aren’t difficult for me… it’s just that I feel like I could be doing something else with my time. Most of the time when I’m attending these events, I’m either hiding out where the food table is, scrolling through my phone, or actively trying to avoid and dodge well-meaning (but sometimes annoying and obnoxious) people asking me super-personal questions about why I don’t have kids and why I’m not in a relationship.
The second shower was like the first, only this time, the shower consisted of more women within my age group who were married with children of their own. And the conversations about the peaks and pits of motherhood were interesting. I was also the only Black person in attendance at this event, so most of what was communicated was coming from the perspectives of young to middle-aged white women, some of whom were stay at home moms, sharing stories about what their experiences were like as mothers. As I listened, I sensed that some of the conversations seemed performative, others felt sad, and some of the moms in the room seemed genuinely happy.
At both baby showers and past ones I’ve attended, I’ve always been happy to pick up gifts and celebrate whoever was expecting a new little one to arrive in the world. But I’ve also felt out of place during these celebrations because I don’t feel like I relate to most of the women in the room. And when I think about the possibility of not being a mother, I’ve found that I mostly feel indifferent and unbothered.
This realization really came to light this past summer during a doctor’s visit about a recent life change coming my way. When I spoke with a specialist about whether or not I’d be able to have a child, he looked at me and said, “Well, if you had a child, you’d be considered a high-risk pregnancy.” When he found out that I was 33 he went on to say, “But at the age you’re at now, you’re about to enter high-risk zone anyway, so there’s that.” His comments didn’t scare me or bother me. When a female specialist entered the room and asked about how I felt about these risks, my response was, “If I have a child, I’ll be fine. If I don’t? I’ll live. I’m good either way.”
And I sincerely mean that.
I’ve encountered women my age (and older) who don’t have kids and are devastated about moving through miscarriages, infertility challenges, and coming to grips with having to completely forfeit on motherhood (for various reasons) altogether. And while I do feel for them, have prayed for them, and listened to their heartbreaking stories, I’ve accepted that no matter what does or doesn’t happen for me, I’ll always be grateful for what I have instead of lamenting over what I don’t. While I believe in keeping the faith (with works) and lifting the desires of your heart up to God in consistent prayer, I’m choosing to focus on the areas of my life that are rich.
Sometimes I can’t believe I get to be me. I get to be a believer with ordered steps. I get to be a loving daughter, a cool auntie, a loyal friend, and a fur mom to my adopted Shepsky. I get to write, I get to teach, and I get to be a GOAT English teacher who works with teenagers and colleagues who regularly challenge me to refine my skills and bring my best. I get to be single and do life the way I want to. And I don’t have to prove anything to anyone, apologize for who I am, or explain myself to people who may never fully understand me anyway.
No matter what, life will do what it's going to do. But in the meantime, I intend to enjoy the rich one I've been blessed with.