Do you really want a child?
Or do you want a purpose, a marriage rescue, your parents' approval, and someone who's supposedly required to love you?
What an incredible reason to create a human being. The clock hit the right hour, your friends started posting strollers, and your mother stopped being subtle about it. So it's time.
You spent longer choosing your phone. Asked around, compared options, thought about whether it suited you. But here we're talking about someone else's entire life, and your main argument is that everyone else has already done it.
I'm not going to argue that having children is bad. I have no interest in that stupid war where one side calls parents a mindless herd and the other treats childless people as unfinished human beings.
With all the pressure to have children, I'm interested in a question that somehow strikes a lot of people as offensive: why do you, personally, want a child?
Do you want to raise a separate human being? Or do you want their arrival to finally fix something inside you and around you?
Because sometimes the list of responsibilities looks like you should be hiring an entire team of specialists.
Save the marriage. Give life meaning. Reconcile the family. Make Grandma happy. Provide love. Guarantee company in old age.
The baby can't even hold its head up yet, and you've already handed it a fucking business plan.
The idea of saving a relationship with a person who will initially depend on you for absolutely everything is especially brilliant. The two of you can't agree on who's taking out the trash. But somehow you're certain that sleep deprivation, expenses, and new responsibilities will improve the negotiation process.
What exactly is that calculation based on? The hope that leaving will be harder now?
I'm also fond of “at least you'll have someone who loves you.” Of course. At first, they barely have any other options. You're their world, their food, their safety, their access to everything they need.
But then they'll grow up. They'll have their own people, their own opinions, and the right to be angry with you. They might not want a hug whenever it suits you. They might move away. They might turn out to be nothing like the person you imagined.
Are you ready to love them then, too? Or did the agreement imply a grateful replica of your expectations?
Your child doesn't owe you a second chance at the career you never had. They don't have to choose a profession that's convenient for you to brag about. They don't have to deliver achievements in exchange for the cost of extracurricular activities.
You can give them opportunities. But if every opportunity comes with a bill marked “after everything we did for you,” that's a pretty strange gift.
Imagine they turn out to be ordinary. No medals. No extraordinary talent. A personality that sometimes pisses you off. Difficulties of their own that won't make a pretty photo caption.
Do you still want to be there? I find that answer more interesting than your reaction to a cute baby video.
Perfectly prepared parents don't exist. Having a child doesn't require you to finish living, earn all the money in the world, and stop making mistakes. But discussing reality before it's screaming in the next room is a reasonable idea.
Who will do the caring? How will you share the workload? What happens to work? Is there help? What will you do if it's harder than you expected? Can either of you honestly say “I don't want this yet” without being met with emotional blackmail?
It's an uncomfortable conversation. But the person you're planning to create deserves at least that much discomfort in advance.
Sometimes the most adult decision sounds like “not now.” Sometimes it's “I don't want this at all.” Neither requires a dissertation in your defense or a formal announcement to every relative.
And if you do want it, let that desire leave room for a living person. With a separate life that doesn't exist to fill your emptiness.
It's easier to give birth to your purpose than to admit, years later, that your purpose has grown up and wants a life of its own.