Allow me to freely diatribe on why I’ve chosen not to have children. As a younger woman, I used to think about what I would name my kids, and how many I would want, and at what age I might become a parent. I’m an only child who adored kids growing up. Spending time with them was my biggest hobby, in lieu of sports or clubs. When I was five, my folks moved us to a neighborhood that was on the verge of exploding with kids (in a white, middle-class way), and I was the oldest on the block. For a decade it seemed like about two or three kids were being born each year, and I used to spend time with the neighbor women while they were pregnant, full of questions and excitement. When I was about eight, I began to offer what one neighbor branded “toddler entertaining services”, since I was deemed too young to babysit. This involved spending hours with kids, playing with them while their parents got stuff done around the house. At eleven, I took a babysitting class offered by Seattle Children’s Hospital, which went over all the basics of first-aid, CPR, and best childcare practices. I was certified, and for hire. Business was great. For the next ten years I was regularly employed within a mile radius so parents could work beyond school hours, or enjoy a night out. I took care of this group of kids from the time they were in diapers until they were old enough to be home alone. I’ve experienced, up close and personally, developmental stages, gender differences, and sibling relationships. I’ve meted out discipline, administered medication, expressed unconditional love, had the sex talk with kids of all ages. I’ve even cared for teenagers, because my relationships with my charges often lasted beyond their need for supervision. I was a natural, and I believe I made a lasting impact on the lives of each of these kids, all of whom made it into adulthood (yay!). Continue reading →