By Kimberly Haddad
One question that frequently arises in conversations with me is the matter of whether or not I desire children in the future. This difficult and emotionally-charged question has been on my mind for as long as I can remember. But unlike many of my friends and loved ones, the role of mother has never held a prominent place in my heart. Rather, my focus has always been centered around personal development and advancing in my career. At this point, the thought of having children has been somewhat dismissed due to my age and a series of disappointing romantic encounters. However, as I approach my 38th birthday, a subtle shift in me is forcing reflection not only on my perception of motherhood, but also on whether I have subconsciously rejected it as a way to cope with fears of pregnancy or the uncertainties that lie ahead.
Growing up, my childhood playtime took a different form compared to other young girls around me. While they happily engaged in traditional role-playing games like house or impersonating mommy with their Cabbage Patch dolls, I preferred more unconventional scenarios. Instead of fantasizing about a fairytale wedding and walking Barbie down an elegant aisle lined with shimmering pearls and pipe cleaners from my mother’s art box, I stacked their hard figures atop one another and secured them in bondage to the legs of my bed frame. While many girls envisioned themselves as dutiful housewives, wearing aprons and baking in pint-sized kitchenettes, I played the owner of a restaurant, passionately cooking up meals with a plastic ribeye. And every now and again, I’d find a quiet corner and innocently press my private area against my stuffed animals. Looking back, I realize my early pursuits derived from a deep fascination and innate urge to comprehend the webs of intimacy. My choices in doingso may have been different, but they were born out of genuine interest and a need to untangle the intricacies of the world around me—something I still find myself doing.
As I grew older, I watched all of the women in my family embark on the beautiful course of finding love, reciting vows, and reveling the swells of baby bumps. They eagerly shared hand-me-downs, midwives, and stories of their all-natural births over bread and wine. These were the moments they had longed for throughout their lives, the moments we as women should long for, but I struggled to connect with their excitement. I never really felt like I had that maternal instinct. I recoiled at the thought of cradling their infants, shying away with defensive hands when offered, as if I were creating a barrier between a threat and my own body. Their cries irritated me, and watching my cousin’s nipples be bit and pulled at in every direction served as the ultimate form of contraception. And don’t even get me started on watching her home birth while stoned on edibles.
Growing up in a Middle Eastern culture where motherhood is highly valued and anticipated has always made me feel the pressure to have children. In my family, women are expected to conceive and fulfill their roles as mothers. Children are considered a blessing and source of pride for the family. They are the ones who will carry onits name and traditions. The birth of a child is celebrated with immense joy, marking a significant milestone in a woman’s life. Not conforming to these expectations can result in shame and disappointment. The cultural pressures surrounding motherhood can be overwhelming, leaving little freedom for women to decide for themselves whether or not to have children. And when they do, it becomes hard to tell if their choice was heartfelt or simply a product of the pervasive influences that have shaped their mindset. When I think about how I haven’t given my parents a clear vision of potential grandchildren, I cannot shake the feeling that I’m falling short, that I have not lived up to the standards expected of a daughter, that I have let them down with the path I have chosen in life. Five years ago, I made the decision to call off my wedding, and now this? A palpable sadness clouds my mother’s eyes at baby showers, where she stands as the sole sister without grandchildren or married daughters. And seeing the bittersweet emotions that dance across my father’s face as he interacts with other children at family gatherings is one of the saddest things I have ever seen.
However, it’s not only my family that shares this belief system. Women are frequently bombarded with messages that suggest their primary purpose and fulfillment come from motherhood. Choosing to prioritize a career, personal growth, or delaying motherhood is sometimes met with disapproval and raised eyebrows. This societal narrative reinforces the notion that a woman’s worth is intrinsically tied to her ability to reproduce. Caught between my family’s emphasis on motherhood and societal pressures regarding timing for having kids, I often feel deeply conflicted.
To be completely honest, and if you’ve been following my columns, you should know to expect nothing less, I have to admit that I don’t particularly care for most children. The truth is, I find them quite annoying. My mother always rationalizes that other children bother me because they aren’t my own, that I find their runny noses and soiled diapers repulsive because they do not bear my own flesh and blood. She promises that the love I’d have for my own offspring will surpass any- thing I have ever experienced. But what if that’s not the case? What if I still feel the same way, or worse, find myself resenting my children for the sole reason that they came from my own flesh, for draining my energy and stealing my fleeting youth? Is it selfish to fear the disruption of the life I have worked so hard to create, to fear the sacrifice of the woman I have become and the body I inhabit, all in the name of bringing a child into a world plagued by turmoil—a world rife with school violence, bullying, a growing mental health crisis, homelessness, and a deteriorating climate? I love my sleep. I value my peace of mind. I need a clean space. The gym serves as my therapy. I relish in the freedom to have sex whenever and wherever I choose. Adjusting my routine for a man is already challenging enough, and at least I can send him back to the streets if need be. But for a child? Forgive me if I sound heartless, but the idea of having a child, caring for them, and being responsible for their wellbeing every single day terrifies me. And it brings me to an even bigger question: Can I truly even see myself as a mother?
As I soul search through my desire for motherhood, the answer is a resounding yes, but with a specific focus. I see myself evolving into an extraordinary mother who offers the emotional support and guidance that I never received from my own. If it’s one thing I am certain of, it’s that I am passionate about nurturing a child’s creativity and independence, allowing them to freely blossom into their unique selves. Growing up in a family that placed a strong emphasis on guilt and shame, I struggled to assert my autonomy and carve out my own identity, leading to an unrelenting sense of isolation. My journey to empowerment as a woman has always been clouded by familial expectations, prioritizing honor and reputation over my own joy and ambitions. Motherhood excites me as a chance to positively influence and uplift a new generation, free from the restrictions and traumas of my ancestors.
One of the more major factors impacting my decision to have children is the biological aspect of fertility. Society often highlights the age of 35 as a critical point for women’s reproductive capabilities. It’s like a neon sign screaming, “Use ‘em or lose ‘em, bitches!” As we get older, the quality and quantity of our eggs diminish, fertility treatments become less effective, the risk of miscarriage increases, and the likelihood of chromosomal abnormalities rises. I’m edging closer to 38 and cozying up to my cat, but my potential baby daddy is still nowhere to be found. Despite my age, I have yet to meet a man who sets my world on fire enough to make me think, “Oh my God, put a baby in me!” I am nearing 38 and my eggs are being stamped with a geriatric label, as if I should be swapping out a bottle of wine for organic prune juice. Just a little reminder: the term “geriatric” is usually reserved for the elderly in the world of healthcare. The reality is that time is not infinite when it comes to fertility and the possibility of never experiencing motherhood can be frightening for many women, including myself. While I may be leaning towards no, the thought of not even having a choice someday leaves me feeling deeply unsettled.
One way to tackle the challenges of aging and fertility is through egg preservation and in vitro fertilization (IVF), which are becoming increasingly popular. A recent survey by the Pew Research Center found that 42 percent of Americans have either used these treatments themselves or know someone who has, a big jump from five years ago. The demand of these procedures has turned the industry into a multi-billion dollar market in the U.S., thanks to their ability to make parenthood possible for individuals facing fertility issues, age-related or otherwise. However, a major obstacle to accessing this technology is the lack of insurance coverage, with many health plans deeming egg freezing as an elective rather than an essential aspect of reproductive healthcare. A single cycle of IVF can carry a price tag well exceeding $10,000, while the cost of egg freezing can soar to $30,000 or more. Let us not forget about the additional financial commitment of storage fees, which can set you back anywhere from $500 to $1,000 annually.
During a conversation last Thanksgiving about the possibility of freezing my own eggs, my mother amusingly suggested that I could potentially save money by storing them in her freezer, next to the pita bread and Ziplock of pine nuts. Although humorous in the moment, the truth is that choosing to have children is a fundamental part of a woman’s identity. Yet, delaying motherhood can inadvertently result in the heartbreaking possibility of forgoing parenthood altogether, highlighting just one of many flaws in our societal framework. With more women choosing to postpone having children for personal, career, and financial reasons, ensuring equal access to fertility preservation technologies becomes vital. By covering the costs of egg freezing, insurance providers can create a space where women feel empowered to make decisions about their reproductive futures on their own terms. Infertility affects millions of people around the world, regardless of race, gender, or socioeconomic status. For those struggling with infertility, access to this kind of care can mean the difference between being able to start a family or not. The ability to choose if, when, and how to do that is a basic human right. Fertility care is a basic human right, not a luxury reserved for the affluent or privileged.
When it comes to fertility, I could write a novel on my worries about all things biological. But let’s not forget about the physical and emotional changes that may come with pregnancy—the dreaded weight gain, swollen feet, hemorrhoids, and the sad deflation of my once perky chest post-breast-feeding. Then we’ve got the stretch marks, potential anal tearing during birth, the worry of postpartum depression, difficulties bonding with my baby, and the never-ending battle of reclaiming my autonomy while being absorbed into my new role of caring for a tiny human 24/7. As someone who is passionate about fitness and has worked tirelessly to overcome body dysmorphia and sculpt my ideal physique, one might assume that returning to my previous form wouldn’t be a concern. However, it’s not the physical recovery that intimidates me most. It is the ongoing mental battle of accepting these changes day in and day out.
The thought of becoming a mother has been on my mind more frequently lately, and I believe it’s because I am actively dating. While navigating the ups and downs of the dating scene, I often find myself encountering two types of men: those who already have children and those who aspire to become fathers. Age doesn’t seem to be a major concern for men, as long as they maintain their energy and well-being. The sight of a silver fox spending quality time with his child on the playground is enough to melt any woman’s heart who yearns to start a family. For women, however, age plays a significant role and the scrutiny faced by those who choose to have children later in life adds another layer of complexity to an already brutal decision-making process.
Women over 35 who express a hope to conceive often encounter skepticism, criticism, and unsolicited advice from family, friends, and even healthcare providers. Depictions in the media of older mothers as selfish or reckless only reinforce the damaging stereotypes linked to delayed childbirth. Furthermore, women who find themselves single in their late 30s often face additional judgment, as society questions their decisions and life choices. It’s hilarious how people can turn your indecision about having kids into a full-blown dissertation on your moral character, all while you’re just chillin. Nonetheless, I frequently ponder whether it would be wise to only pursue relationships with men who either do not want children or already have their own, to alleviate the pressure on myself. Is it selfish to date men who yearn for children when I am uncertain?
Recently, I was involved with a man 10 years younger than me. Regardless of the age gap, he displayed a level of maturity that surpassed many men my own age in various aspects. He lived independently, had a successful career, and dressed exceptionally well. He was attentive, direct, communicative, and he knew how to physically connect with me in a way that left me weak in the knees. He was adamant about wanting to become a father, but when I shared my uncertainty, he responded with, “Well, that’s not a definite no.” It never bothered him that I was older. In fact, he preferred it. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but fixate on my new wrinkles, gray hairs, and the fact that time was not on my side. We had a pattern of brief flings punctuated by radio silence. But eventually, I knew I couldn’t rob him of fatherhood, and my hesitation about having children was enough to call it quits before it got too serious. Having said all of that, I do acknowledge that life has the potential to change dramatically. It is entirely possible that I may encounter someone who positively impacts my views on motherhood, ultimately leading me to realize that I do want to have children, with them.
Having dated men with children already has been a welcome change to be able to live in the moment and not think so much about the future.Yet, dealing with their unpredictable schedules is often a frustration. The other night, I was with an older man I’ve been casually seeing, who also happens to be a father of two. Our conversation about condoms took an unexpected turn when he nonchalantly mentioned the possibility of undergoing a vasectomy. As someone who has never been on birth control, I was shocked by his proactive approach, as most men wouldn’t consider such a step for a woman’s benefit. It made me realize the depth and consideration that set him apart from most of the men I was used to dating. But what really struck me was my sudden thought of having a child with him. Yes, quite the thought, I’m aware. I have no intention of getting into the complications of this relationship dynamic. That is not the focus here. The crux of the matter lies in the unfamiliar emotions that arose within me in that moment, a gentle flutter in my chest that hastened my heartbeat and reminded me of the gravity of the decision to bring a child into this world. It suggested to me that perhaps it’s more about the person I do it with rather than myself.
This may seem obvious, yet my thoughts and fears regarding parenthood have mainly revolved around how it would impact me personally—how it would make me feel, how it would alter my life, as if I were facing it alone. While I know this is unlikely to be the case, there are moments when it certainly feels that way because I’ve seen it happen often in my life. I have witnessed numerous women, despite having extremely loving and supportive partners, struggle under the weight of childcare responsibilities.
I remember a few years back, I was in Las Vegas with my best friend, her husband, and a few mutual friends. She had recently given birth and post-baby fun had left her with a milk-filled dilemma. She forgot her pump. Cue the chaos as we prepped for the strip, breasts bulging, pain escalating. She was in agony, but somehow managed to laugh and cry simultaneously, while trying to milk herself like a cow. In a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure, she called out to her husband who was getting ready in the bathroom. He rushed out in a towel and without hesitation, he did the unthinkable. He started sucking the milk straight from her boob. “This is what true love looks like, assholes!” he said, his hardon pressing at the towel and white droplets dripping from his chin. This moment will likely be remembered as one of the most hilarious memories I have of them, making me crave a love just like theirs. However, I was only seeing a brief point in time, not the full story.
I can’t even begin to count the many instances where I’ve found myself juggling packing lunches for her three children, helping her to cook dinner, fold laundry, and guzzle dirty martinis all at once. I have listened to her vent about feeling overwhelmed, trying to manage everything around the house, while her husband was conveniently working upstairs. The stories from other mothers about not having enough time for themselves or staying up all night just to have a moment of peace are endless. It’s scary to think that even with great partners, these women still feel like solo supermoms. And this thought lingers every time I consider starting a family of my own.
In traditional family dynamics, it is often the case that men are expected to fulfill their roles as breadwinners, while women are burdened with the lion’s share of childcare responsibilities. While there are those devoted women who choose the path of stay-at-home mama, there exists many other women who have ambitions far beyond domestic duties. To entertain the idea of being the dominant caretaker of a child, engaging in the monotonous routines for hours on end each day, would drive me to the brink of insanity. A soul as dynamic and multifaceted as mine craves variety and intellectual stimulation, with goals far too big to be contained within the four walls of a home. More importantly, I am unwilling to resign myself to a life where my dreams are pushed aside, where my income and independence dwindles, and my every decision hinges on the financial approval of my partner.
In today’s society, women are increasingly prioritizing their careers and personal goals while also embracing motherhood as a part of their identity. Motherhood should complement our identities, not define them entirely. I must have absolute assurance that my partner is prepared to share the callings of parenthood, that he respects and honors my goals with the same fervor as his own. I need him to intuitively sense my stress or fatigue before I even utter a word, to support me unequivocally when I need a moment to recharge. I need to be certain that our love and partnership will always be a priority, with planned date nights, romantic gestures, and an unending wellspring of delicious sex because, even in the whirlwind of caring for a baby, I will always be his babygirl.
As I navigate through the internal struggles and contemplation surrounding my desire for children, I hope to find clarity and peace in the decision I ultimately make. Whether I choose to venture into motherhood or not, this process of self-discovery and introspection will shape my future and guide me towards a greater understanding of my authentic self, and that alone is truly invaluable.
