I’ve never had children. My choice. It’s not that I don’t like them. I do. I love them. I just never wanted any of my own. I like nothing more than spending time with my friends’, colleagues’ and family’s kids and grand kids. I’m a great ‘aunt’.
And then I’m happy to go home to the relative peace and quiet of my life. And my house. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve never regretted it. Not for a minute. Not even when I am holding the most beautiful, wonderful, warm, cuddly, sweet-smelling baby in my arms. Which I love doing, incidentally.
Hey there, hang on a minute. Don’t go rushing off, analyzing me. I had two of the greatest parents anyone could have. They loved me. Took care of me. Nurtured me. Spent time with me. Taught me. Guided me. Advised me. Helped me. Protected me. Talked openly to me, about anything and everything. Set great examples for me. And, when it was time, they set me free, as difficult as it was for them. Free to become my own person. Free to create my own life. Free to make my own mistakes. Free to make my own choices. Free to become ‘me’. Not their idea of me.
So “no”, there was NOTHING in my childhood that would account for my not wanting babies of my own. I had an idyllic upbringing. My mom and dad made it look so simple, if anything, I should have wanted dozens.
Sometimes, because I have to know what makes people tick, myself included, I’ve self-analyzed: Is it because I’m an only Continue reading