It has been impossible to pick up a newspaper recently without being faced with the photograph of a smiling white woman in her thirties or forties telling us how happy she is to have decided not to have children. The articles had titles such as “Women without children aren’t selfish — we’re self-aware” and “I’m childless by choice — but please stop asking me about it” and were prompted by the publication of Ruby Warrington’s new book, Women without Children. I read the articles and my overwhelming emotion was envy — not of these women’s childlessness but of their certainty.
Why do I have children? It isn’t because I always yearned for them — I didn’t. It isn’t because I felt my life was impoverished without them — it wasn’t. It isn’t because I am temperamentally suited to have children — I’m not. I like my own space and I love peace and quiet. I am quite selfish and self-absorbed and not hugely into sharing. I like going on holidays that actually feel like holidays. My children give me a reason to live but they also sometimes make me long for death. They make me laugh and they have often made me cry. So why do I have children?
