Magnify

was sublime. After all, it’s not often that I get to wear a beautiful gown, have almost everyone I love in the same room and dance the night away. Combine all that with the fact that I was legally united to the love of my life, and it was as close to perfection as a day can get.

That was also the day when people stopped asking me the question I had been hearing for roughly five years: “When are you going to get married?” The question had several variations (Why haven’t you two gotten married yet? Do you think he’s going to propose soon? Are you ever going to get married?), but it was essentially the same. Happily, I knew I would not be hearing it anymore.

Of course, that question was promptly replaced by a new one. I had been expecting it at some point—I would have been naïve not to—but I was a bit surprised when it came not 15 minutes after Ian and I had tied the knot.

“So, when are we going to start seeing a little Liz and Ian?” a family friend asked at the cocktail hour that immediately followed our wedding ceremony.

Humor, preferably of the sarcastic ilk, really is the only appropriate response to this question, especially when it is posed while the ink on your marriage license is still drying. “I’m sorry, did you want us to slip into the coat room and get started on that right now?” I said.

Although I laughed off the inquiry at the time, I knew that it was only the beginning. “When are you two going to have kids?” was what most people would be asking sooner or later.

What bothers me most about this question is not that it’s intrusive. I suppose I can understand the curiosity to some degree, even though my reproductive status is not really anyone else’s business, except of course my husband’s.

The bothersome thing is that the question is so presumptuous. I’d be much more amenable to the question if the when were excised from it. With that small change, it goes from presupposition to merely curious inquisition. But, alas, the when is almost always there.

The when bothers me for a couple of reasons. First of all, how do the askers know that I am able to have children? Do they never consider that I may desperately want a baby but am experiencing fertility problems, and, by asking, they are bringing up what is almost certainly a touchy subject?  That is not the case, but it brings me to my second problem with the when.  By asking when, people are automatically assuming that I want and intend to have children.  Why is the predilection toward procreation considered to be the default state of a married couple?  According to the National Center for Health Statistics, the percentage of women aged 15 to 44 years in the U.S. who were voluntarily child-free rose from 4.9% in 1982 to 6.2% in 2002.  It may be a small minority, but it’s a growing one.

I have several pithy stock responses to the question (We’re waiting until we can get one on sale. Oh, crap, I knew there was something we were forgetting to do! When we run out of other things to do and talk about).  However, if I am not feeling especially sarcastic, I will answer the question honestly and say, “Actually, we’re not sure if we want kids.”

In rare cases, the inquisitor will nod his or her head and say, “Ah, well, don’t have them unless you really want them.” Now there’s an idea! But more often, my answer elicits a condescending look that says, “Oh, sure you don’t,” or the inevitable follow-up question is posed: “Why not?

I can think of any number of reasons why I might not want to have children (I like my life the way it is now; children are messy, expensive, and energy-sapping; the world is already overpopulated; I want to devote myself to my career; I love that things in my house do not mysteriously become sticky while I’m not looking). However, I simply don’t understand why I must justify my indecision.

Upon hearing that someone I know is expecting, I have often been tempted to ask her why she wants a child. Thus far, I have held my tongue, as I’m sure that asking such a question would be considered brazen and possibly offensive. Why other people feel the need to breed is really none of my business, but I do think that if you are going to bring a life into this world and take on the responsibility of caring and providing for it for 18 years or more, you should probably have some darn good reasons for wanting to make such a mind-blowingly huge commitment. But most people don’t think of it that way. Of course everyone wants to have children—they are a joy! Yes, I’m sure they are the epitome of bliss, except for the sleepless nights, thousands of dirty diapers, need to brave holiday shopping stampedes for this year’s must-have toy, being subjected to Shrek III approximately 900 times, tantrums, the rebellious teenage years and skyrocketing college tuition costs. Yet people often react as if there is something terribly wrong with not wanting children and that choosing not to have them would be condemning myself to a meaningless existence.

Thankfully, child-free people tend to have more free time, disposable income, and rewarding hobbies. These saving graces, along with being better rested than your average parent, help us muddle through our meaningless existence.

From the time that I myself was a kid, I expressed doubt about ever wanting to have children, but my misgivings were always met with the same reaction: “You’ll change your mind. You’ll want kids one day.” Well, I’m coming up on 35, and I’m still not sure that kids are for me. I won’t say absolutely not, but at this point, it’s not looking good for anyone who is rooting for me to breed. These days, people do take me more seriously when I say I’m not sure that I want kids, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they accept my answer happily and without further comment. “Oh, but you’d be such a great mom!” Based on what? My fear of change or my lack of experience caring for children? “Don’t you think you’ll regret it some day if you don’t have them?” Perhaps, but that’s a heck of a lot better than having children and regretting it.

The strangest people are those who see my lack of desire for offspring as some sort of personal affront, as if, by not having kids, I am suggesting that people with children made the wrong choice. That is simply not true. The path you choose may not be right for me, and vice versa. So, please, if you encounter me or any other child-free person, put your assumptions aside.  After all, if you stay on our good side, we might baby-sit for you some time when you need a break from the little ones.

Elizabeth Barton is a freelance writer in Chicago. She has studied creative writing at The Writer’s Loft workshop under renowned teacher and author Jerry Cleaver for more than four years.