Having a Baby is Massively Overrated

Beware of the all-consuming commitment of child-rearing.

My lovely minifridge, Tom, sits behind me every day. He’s escorted me on every step of my writing journey.

Here, say hi, Tom:

Every 30 minutes or so, Tom likes to buzz to cool himself down. You can barely hear the noise but it still pisses me off.

I love you Tom, but enough already.

I turn on a small fan so that I don’t hear the buzzing. But if I don’t position the fan in the right spot — somewhere between my desk and the minifridge — it won’t drown out the buzzing that shouldn’t even bother me in the first place.

Now, given this information, I hope you understand why having a child might not be good for someone like me. I’m already high maintenance.

When you see a beautiful baby, I see a goblin, a mini-human malware hellbent on destroying my life and draining all sleep, money, and free time.

Yes, babies are lovable, cute, and full of joy. But invariably, they are pissed and loud. They hold in their poops until releasing brown explosions that shoot down their leg and onto the floor.

They level up to toddlers, who use their fountains of energy to free solo your wobbly furniture in perpetuity.

They tearfully demand to play with a steak knife, and when you don’t let them, they scream as if a bearing witness to an active murder scene.

Then they become pre-adolescents who shout, beg and stomp through the house at all hours. They become adolescents who look at you and roll their eyes hard enough to cause a concussion.

I can’t even deal with a buzzing mini-fridge. I can’t even focus when my chair has a squeak. I sleep in a sensory deprivation chamber. My bedroom is as dark and quiet as the vacuum of space. When it isn’t, I get annoyed.

And yet, so often, complete strangers insist that I actually want a baby and don’t know it yet. Or, they just casually pass judgment on me. For example, an old lady asked me about my parenting status and I politely said, “I’m leaning away from that endeavor.”

She sighed, “Oh what a shame.”

When I tell people my age that I’m leaning away from children, they almost always say some version of, “Oh no, not you too!” Like I’m a random civilian casualty in The Great Fertility War of 2199.

Here’s the worst one of all, “You’ll change your mind someday.”

Baby pressure comes on all fronts, sometimes under the guise of humor, other times more blunt and rude.

Here’s the thing: We are given options in life. Each option cancels out another option.

I regret not studying more in grade school. Yet because I didn’t study, I spent more time dreaming and doing creative things, which later benefitted me as a person and a writer. Who’s to say that would happen if I’d been glued to my books 24–7.

I regret not experiencing romantic love in my teens and 20s. But by being single, I was able to date lots of people, meet amazing women, and have fewer emotional scars from heartbreak. I won’t ever regret having missed out on single life.

Regret is a natural result of any major decision. We make tradeoffs.

It’s very possible that I remain childless and end up regretting it. That doesn’t mean having children is the right decision.

Part of my leaning away from kids is informed by my own childhood. I saw firsthand — and was the leading actor — in the cost and chaos of raising kids. My parents were often taken to the brink of their sanity and had many blowout fights that probably wouldn’t have happened if they didn’t have kids.

I’m well aware the tone of this article is blunt and cranky. This is very intentional and necessary. You have to hit hard with stubborn people who keep pressuring strangers to pump out babies.

The truth is, I’m an insanely happy person, happier than I’ve ever been. I’ve made a number of bad life decisions because of outside influence and paid for it through an extended-release dose of misery. Experience teaches you to hang on to a good thing when you find it. In the US, parents are 12.7% less likely to be happy than childless. people.

I’m 38 and many of my guy friends have young children. I can’t overstate this enough: They are chained-in-steel to parenting.

And to their credit, that’s because they rise to the occasion and do a job many fathers skip out on. For them, traveling and doing literally anything involves a huge negotiation with their wife, along with rules and strings attached.

I sleep. I have time and money. I could drive to the airport right now and buy a plane ticket to somewhere without any planning or negotiations.

Why do people care if I, or anyone else, have kids? Last week, I was in a waiting room at the dentist’s office. I was sitting by a 40-ish-year-old mother, whose kids were getting a cleaning. We were having a friendly-enough conversation to pass the time. She asked me if I had kids, I said, “No, I don’t think they are for me.”

And for once, for one freaking time, I got an answer that wasn’t full of judgment. She nodded her head and said, “I don’t blame you.”

Whenever someone tells me they are having a baby, I can’t help but think to myself, “Seriously? You want all that?”

To end on a positive note, I have immense respect for parents. Raising a child isn’t just challenging, it’s a herculean effort. It’s my respect for the task that steers me away from it.

In the meantime, my minifridge Tom is enough responsibility for now. Hey Tom. Please pass me a soda.

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