As I enter my late twenties, I’m attending more and more baby showers. I don’t want children, but I’m happy to celebrate other people who decide to pop one out. And boy, do we celebrate that decision. Gender reveal parties, baby showers, sprinkles, registry lists, wildly expensive itty-bitty pairs of shoes—the list goes on.
Yet while I’m sitting at these parties, watching a grown-ass woman eat fake shit out of a diaper, I can’t help thinking that my decision to not have children isn’t celebrated in the same way. It sounds lovely to have a big ol’ party surrounded by your friends and family, all of them offering words of love and encouragement, telling you that if you drop the ball, they’ll all be there to help you.
So why is this reserved for the parents and aspiring parents among us? If you’re a woman reading this, then you probably already know the kind of responses “I don’t want kids” inspires. However, I’m going to list some of them anyway. Just for fun.
“You’ll change your mind.”
“You’re too young to make that kind of decision.”
“You just haven’t met the right man yet.” (As a queer woman, this is especially gut-wrenching.)
“Who will take care of you when you’re old?”
“That’s selfish.”
What if your granny responded the following way to a woman who does want kids?
“How are you going to afford it?”
“Are you certain your partner is onboard for such a big commitment?”
“Do you think it’s a good idea to have a baby now, given the state of the world?”
“What about overpopulation? The climate? The job crisis?”
“That’s selfish.”
A problem with celebrating childlessness is that there’s no precise moment to latch onto. Except, of course, when you get an abortion.
I don’t think any woman should be shamed for decisions she makes about her own body (controversial, I know). Yet lots of women still are.
A problem with trying to celebrate childlessness is that there’s no precise moment to latch onto. Whereas being pregnant is a very specific period of time where you can celebrate the decision to have kids. Except, of course, when you decide to get an abortion.
Having an abortion is a very intentional act (in my experience, a lot more intentional than getting pregnant), when someone can weigh the options and make a firm choice to not have a child. When I was 17, I had an abortion of my own. I felt a vile cocktail of fear, shame, and guilt for choosing to end my pregnancy. Imagine if, instead of stewing in that horrible headspace, I could have been supported—celebrated, even—for my decision.
That moment, when I was sad and largely alone, is when I most needed to hear from the people I love that my choice was valid and not selfish. That it was a decision I was allowed to make. I would’ve given anything to have a supportive gang of people around me, telling me it was going to be okay after I had my abortion. And isn’t that what a baby shower is? Even the crazy consumerist overtones that have warped modern baby showers seem to be a way for people to show love and support—to make sure that parents have all they need to make their child rearing decision a reality.
This is not the level of love and support that women without children receive.
I barely ever bring up my abortion, though I feel like I would be a better feminist if I did. The closest I ever get to these kinds of conversations is saying “I don’t want kids, actually” to elderly relatives at suddenly awkward Christmas dinners.
Both my sister and I have had abortions, and we often joke that we wish we’d gotten each other cards or “congratulations” helium balloons. We were too young and too scared back then to feel anything other than misery and shame.
I like to think that if my sister had one now, I would throw her an abortion shower—if for nothing else, just to see the horror on my grandma’s face.
