PuddleMonkey

As I pull myself over to the operating table, Dr. Higgins, my anesthesiologist, asks if I’ve ever stayed at a Motel 6.

“I’m not that kind of girl, Dr. Higgins,” I say. The other people in the operating room–the chief resident, a nurse and my OB/GYN–giggle. Dr. Higgins goes on to tell a story about his long-dead dog Duke and their adventures traveling across the country and staying in Motel 6, once the only motel that allowed pets. He sticks lipids to my back and chest and continues his story, but I no longer have the power to listen to him. The cocktail he administered five minutes earlier is taking effect. I close my eyes and picture Duke, a black and white Great Dane.

An hour later I wake up in recovery. My belly hurts, but I am relieved. I’ve had my tubes tied, and for reasons I’m not sure I can explain, I feel I’ve entered a new phase in my life. Post-fertility.

I don’t have children because I don’t want children. I never have. The few times I briefly reconsidered, I tried to convince myself that having a child would be good for me because it would help me mature. I would have to learn not to be so self-centered, I would have to put someone else first, I would have to take responsibility for the emotional and physical needs of another–and those qualities, I believed, would make me a better person.

I’d like to believe that my decision not to have children is selfless…because I know that I would not be able to give up the “myself” I have become. That’s hardly fair to a child. And the truth is that I don’t believe I have the capacity to be any less self-centered or interested in my own needs and goals. I want to focus my time on my writing, my dogs, my hobbies, I don’t want to give up any of it. I don’t want to experience pregnancy or childbirth. I don’t want to worry about vaccinations, or teaching someone to look both ways before crossing the street, or finding a reliable babysitter. I don’t want any of the pitfalls or joys that come with motherhood. I’m still just a child myself.

But that’s not to say that I don’t believe motherhood is an incredible, rewarding, and fulfilling experience. I’m certain it is. And I’m especially fond of my friends who are mothers, who balance the everyday and sometimes extraordinary needs of their children with their own, who believe that being a mother means giving a child everything he or she needs to become a whole person and fly from the nest. These mothers amaze me. So do their children.

If I believed I could be the type of mother I adore, I would. But I know what I am.

And I know what I am not.