It started playfully: silly baby names; jokes about sperm donors. Then it became real: a deadline of two years issued by my partner. Outwardly, I hid my doubts, for fear that my partner would doubt me. Secretly, I panicked. I tried to emergency-process all my childhood trauma. I asked friends with kids endless questions about whether they still have hobbies or sex. I even asked my parents. “Don’t overthink it. Having you gave my life meaning,” my dad said, strangely earnest. I stared at him, incredulous, thinking of all the grief and expense I’d caused him. Eventually, partly because of my hesitance about kids, my girlfriend and I split up.
I’m gay and now 32. Although I have no desire to get pregnant myself (it would prompt the uncomfortable feeling I get when somebody calls me “lady”), I am open to having a baby. Yet, when I think about the various complexities of this – choosing a donor or paying up to £25,000 for IVF – I freeze. For my straight friends, the question also feels complex. Some are concerned about their careers or their bank balances. Others haven’t met the right person or are stuck in the spin cycle of dating apps.
