I Am Selfish For Wanting Children

I recently came across an Instagram post that struck the EXACT chord in me that drove me to write this blog in the first place. Yes, I focus a lot on the slowly unfolding catastrophe of climate change and how our kids will live in a more hostile and resource-scarce world, but more than that I’m struggling to accept the fundamental selfishness at the heart of my wish to conceive, gestate, and birth a human being that is half Jack and half me.

This particular Instagram post comes from Dr. Ayesha Kahn and her handle is “wokescientist”. The first page reads: “Children are the most vulnerable, at-risk population in the world. That is why parenthood is a lifelong ethical responsibility, commitment, and service. Yet, childhood trauma is widespread because people often have kids for selfish reasons.”

BOOM. Yes, precisely. Anyone who can, as I so very crassly wrote in my previous post, “bareback fuck” can become a parent. That doesn’t mean they have stepped up to the demands and requirements of the lifelong task before them.

Dr. Kahn says it better. “Some basic facts we can all agree on: 1) No child chooses to be born. They are brought into this world fundamentally without consent by the laws of nature. 2) Adults in various capacities are solely responsible for bringing a child into this world and hence, are entirely responsible for serving the child’s needs and wants as caregivers. 3) Adults are not doing children a ‘favor’ by birthing them or raising them. Children did not ask to be here and raising them is the bare minimum ethical responsibility of bringing life into this world. Your parents shouldn’t guilt you about your mere existence being a burden.”

But as I continued swiping through the slides of her post, I realized that however well-intentioned I am in my desire to provide a stable, loving environment for a child as my parents did for me, I am ultimately and inescapably selfish for even having the desire to procreate. Dr. Kahn continues: “Why do you want to have children? No matter which way I’ve thought about this or which way people have answered, the answers have always been selfish to varying degrees: Because I’ve always wanted to be a parent. Because I love my partner and want to create a child that is half of each of us. Because my parents want to be grandparents and have me continue my family’s lineage. Because I think the idea of me bringing life into this world is a beautiful thing that I’ve always wanted to do. Because it seems like the next step in life is to have a family. Everyone does it.”

I have, if not literally written those words verbatim, expressed nearly every single one of those sentiments from my second post in this blog onward. I talk about how much I love Jack and want more of his DNA around in the form of a cute kiddo. I talk about my desire to experience the magic of growing life first-hand. I arrogantly presume that I will be a sufficient mother, and when I doubt myself I callously throw other struggling parents under the bus screeching, “At least I won’t fail THIS hard!” Every single “justification” I can concoct fails to stand up to scrutiny. Every single one of them is selfish. It centers me. My desire. My vision for my life. My want for Jack to blend his body with mine into a new human.

I am selfish. It cannot be described any other way.

I could VERY easily fuck everything up as a mother. I could very easily fail at every junction. Traumatize my kid. Fail to prepare them for the trauma of living in an ecologically collapsing world. A dying planet. The existential dread is almost too much for ME to handle. What if I pass on my anxieties to my children? What if their anxieties are even worse? It would certainly be understandable if that were so. Much of what we take for granted now will be gone or unrecognizable in just a few decades. And I want to ask my son or daughter to forgive me for my selfishness? I brought them to a dead planet . . . . because I wanted to play house? How can I be viewed as anything other than a self-centered bitch? I’m truly asking myself this question, every day. Constantly. Always thinking about motherhood and parenting and the swirl of emotion around it.

Then we throw in Jack’s hesitation and his own doubts and fears about fatherhood. More than anything he wants to love, protect, and defend his offspring, but he struggles with his temper in emotionally triggering moments. Hey, the guy literally survived a ton of childhood trauma. Years and years’ worth of it. I don’t blame or begrudge him one bit, knowing what he’s been through. He knows the lasting effects of physical abuse better than I do, and he wants to break the cycle and avoid passing it down at all costs. It will be a tall order. Rigorous. Demanding. Exhausting. Triggering.

But parenthood is also rewarding. Fulfilling. Humbling. Inspiring. Even when parents say they aren’t necessarily more happy than their childless counterparts, they do report overall higher levels of purposefulness and satisfaction when they look back on their lives and the growth and evolution of their children. I understand why people become parents, and I think there should be more financial and social support available for parents specifically to reduce the amount of childhood trauma experienced today. There has to be a way for us to ethically bring humans onto this planet without setting them up for failure and removing their ability to meet their own needs in the future. We obviously haven’t figured it out yet and continue to get knocked-up willy-nilly, so all we can do is work within the messy, inefficient system we currently have in place.

I feel simultaneously obligated to adopt and somehow resentful that it would fall upon me. My boss offered her point of view last week. “I don’t think you need to feel obligated, Megan. It would certainly be kind and altruistic of you to adopt, but there’s no need to feel morally forced into it. Have children if you want them.” Then I think of the literal hundreds of thousands of kids in foster care in the U.S. alone and I’m all the more aware of my own wretchedness, insisting that I have my own because I somehow think I’ll be successful and worthy of the venture.

I’m not a mathematician by any stretch of the imagination, but numbers do hold quite a bit of weight in my mind. How can this country have failed so badly that we have hundreds of thousands of unwanted children falling through the cracks of our broken, abusive foster care system? And why do I feel like the fate of each of those kids rests on my decision to get pregnant or not? It makes no sense. It’s not logical. I try to vote in a manner that increases funding for social programs. I advocate for reform. But it’s not enough and it certainly doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

I’m so emotionally drained, every single day. My brain is hard at work, thinking, bargaining, imagining, speculating, debating, visualizing. I work full-time writing CEQA (California Environmental Quality Act) documents for clients, I teach six dance classes a week, I write for the Trinity Journal, and now I’ve picked up a few writing assignments for the S.A.F.E Newsletter (Safer Alternatives for our Forest Environment). I fill my time because what else am I going to do? If I don’t keep myself running at full bore, I’ll stop and cry for God only knows how many days.

To be a dreamer is to be perpetually broken-hearted, envisioning a world that could be so much better than the one we’re currently in, and finding the strength to cope with the crap that comes day after day after day. I love my jobs. I love every single one of them. I want to be spending my time this way. But the capitalist grind is wearing me down before I’ve even entered the prime of my earning years. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. I know other people are far more worse off and burned out than I. I know people are still busting their asses for too little pay, with no benefits, no supports, and no safety nets. I’m so grateful for my husband, my parents and siblings, my friends. I’m grateful for meaningful work and multiple creative outlets. I’m grateful to have a roof over my head and food on my table. I’ve crafted a life that, if it weren’t for this damn global warming, is my idea of perfect. My vision. My dream.

But to fulfill the next stage of this dream, to find myself pregnant with Jack’s child, is more selfish than anything else I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a LOT of selfish things in my life. This post is already too long, so I won’t exhaust the list here, but I need to be gutsy enough to openly state how absolutely, inarguably selfish I am. What I want in life (motherhood) centers me, potentially at the cost of my offsprings’ mental health. Their physical health, even! And for the life of me, I just can’t come up with a good reason to have children, a reason that center’s our child and their needs and wants . . . and not us, the parents.

If you think of one, let me know.

An Old Friend and New Mom Told Me Not to Give Birth. How Could I Possibly Respond?

I recently had an old friend and coworker reach out to me about one of my more heated climate posts on Facebook. The following conversation ensued. (I’ve altered the text only to withhold her name and her husband’s name.)

Friend: “Thanks for your climate message. It is really hard to think about these things day after day. We struggled for a long time about whether to have a child or not. We thought about adoption, and even attended some adoption meetings, but it is just so expensive. So we had a kid. I love her more than anything, but I dunno, we probably shouldn't have had her. I guess I didn't appreciate how quickly things will go downhill climate wise. The guilt that I carry on my shoulders about what she is going to face is extreme, and it will only get worse over time. And it horrifies me thinking that no matter how bad things are at the end of my life, I will know that they will be so much worse for her after I am gone. I just love her so much... but I would be able to make peace with the coming future so much easier if we hadn't had her. I don't even know if I would want to adopt a second child, at this point, because it is too heartbreaking to be so tied to the next generation, knowing what they will suffer. I know its a bummer of a conversation, but I hope you don't mind. Thanks for talking about it with me. You would think everyone, everywhere would be having these conversations, but most folks just want to sweep it under the rug. Anyway, just wanted to give you my perspective if you are agonizing about having a baby...she is my favorite thing ever. I love her more than anything... but the guilt I feel is so, so intense and will never go away. Anyway, I hope you are living somewhere beautiful and enjoying life. We miss your smiling face.”

Me: “It’s so good to hear from you. I am so glad you and your partner procreated. I know you must stress and worry constantly, but you’re one of the good ones fighting the good fight for sustainability, for life. Don’t feel guilty. We will need smart, kind people in the next generation. The best thing we can do now is prepare; learn to forage, farm, hunt, I would say “fish” but the salmon hit 100% mortality in the Sacramento River. I cry nearly every day because I found a wonderful man who is beyond my ideal partner, who is so far above and beyond what I could have envisioned. I want to have his child, grow life, fight like hell to keep it. But I also know that Jack and I will be struggling to live probably within the next 5-10 years, at least if we stay in CA. It’s aridifying so quickly. And even if we go back to the wet, humid northeast, the wet bulb temperatures might still be too hot to survive. Idk. I’m scared. I’d already be pregnant if the climate weren’t collapsing. I’m right on the precipice. I know which way my heart wants me to fall, and I know which way my brain should make me fall. I’m glad you messaged me, because I only ever talk about this with Jack. But it weighs on my mind all day every day. Anyway, I’m glad you two are parents. I know it’s agony, the information, the lack of action. Just don’t give up. It’s not over.”

Friend: “Oh Megan. I feel your pain. It is so hard to want kids so bad but feel like you shouldn't pursue it. We didn't have kids till I was 37 because for the longest time I said I wasn't going to because of climate change. But then the reality of how expensive and challenging adoption is really started to sink in. And it is such a magical and beautiful thing to have a baby grow inside you. And is a natural , hard to quell desire, especially with someone you love so much. I probably wouldn't have gone through with it, except I know how much it meant to my husband. He never pressured me into it, but I could see how hard it was for him to let that dream go. And it feels so unfair that there are Americans out there having 4 or 5 kids and not even thinking about population, and here we were agonizing about one. I wish you the best in this difficult struggle. I am so glad to talk about it with you. My husband is certainly not a climate change denier, but he just doesn't want to talk about it, because it is too sad. But I think we have to talk about it, or else we won't act on it. Anyway, I wish you and Jack so much joy and hapiness in your marriage. I'm so glad you found each other! Much love.”

I haven’t responded but for the simple fact that I don’t know what to say. My friend makes a lot of valid points, particularly that the guilt is undoubtedly soul-crushing and ever-present. And yet I chafe at being told “not to pursue” parenthood. Surely prospective parents who are emotionally, mentally, financially, and physically prime to give rise to new life deserve the chance to at least try, right?

Perhaps I am barren. Perhaps I cannot have children. Perhaps even if Jack and I were to try, we would be unsuccessful for any number of reasons.

But haven’t we at least demonstrated our capabilities, our strengths as teammates in the world? Haven’t we earned the right to start a family all our own? Teenagers do it all the time by accident. Why should I, someone responsible, tender-hearted, and future-thinking, be blatantly told not to propagate my DNA into the world in the form of a son or daughter? I won’t save the planet or save the human race or save a single species by not having children. I just feel so deeply cut, so spiritually wounded by the advice, even though I know it was made wholly with good intent and a soft, empathetic heart.

But still…

Am I really so unworthy of motherhood that I should be told by a mother I’m incapable of tolerating the guilt and sorrow that will accompany the decision? Shouldn’t I be the judge of how much guilt and sorrow I can stomach?

Children used to die of disease all the time. Then modern medicine advanced, vaccines were produced, and child mortality plummeted. Surely I can’t be solely to blame if my child were to, God forbid, tragically die prematurely of a climate-related cause (starvation, dehydration, heat stroke). No parent has complete control over external forces at work once their child enters the world.

(**Grim side note: Long-term, like 4 or 5 decades from now . . . yeah, whatever offspring Jack and I have (IF we have any) will probably be fighting for dear life in a brutally, blisteringly hot planet.)

Surely I can’t solely shoulder the blame if technology were to fail to catch up and address the climate crisis. I would battle with every ounce of wit, cunning, resourcefulness, and strength I possess to keep my child fed and happy, come hell and high water, and I mean that literally. The sea is literally rising and the American West is literally hell for 3-4 months each year now.

All the same, it hurts to be told to just not even try to raise viable offspring to adulthood.

I feel like Jack and I would at least have a fighting chance of providing stability and prosperity for our children. Folks are going bananas breeding without any regard for what we collectively face as a human race, and I feel trapped between my desire for parenthood with Jack, my knowledge of anthropogenic global warming and its consequences, and my deep longing for family. If we brought children into the world, could they ever forgive us for the crime of bringing life to a planet that will soon be unwelcoming and inhospitable to all of us?

We were adapted to the climate we enjoyed for 2 million years. Now it is completely unraveling.

Is that a justifiable reason to forgo having a baby: to avoid the wrath and condemnation from the life we will into being?

More importantly, how would I justify myself to my children? How would I justify my decision to become pregnant? I have plenty of points to make, but who can say whether all of them taken together could be powerful enough to soothe such a wound as perpetual existential crises? I certainly can’t say.

And so that’s why I haven’t replied to my friend.

I Have Baby Fever, but this Earth Fever Can’t Sustain Human Life

Perhaps the most painful grief plaguing my heart is mourning the loss of motherhood before I’d ever experienced it. I want to be a mother more and more as each day passes, carry Jack’s child, grow life, raise a human to adulthood. Perhaps two. But knowing what I know, it feels . . . morally reprehensible to knowingly bring life into a dying planet, a planet that cannot feed nor water our sons and daughters.

If you’d like to learn about the technical aspects of climate change, you can read Megan’s Climate Corner, linked on the homepage. I drop a lot of links to sources, so that you can learn beyond my simplistic text. In fact, I recommend you do: I’m out of storage on my computer and can’t currently upload graphics into my articles. If you click the source link, you can see some great images, graphs, tables, etc.

But this blog is for the feelings, the person behind the science.

I feel the pressure, the desire, and the drive to procreate. My heart is so invested and yet my brain knows better. Well, actually, my brain knows the worst. And that is precisely the problem.

I had waited until I lined everything up: met and married the most wonderful man I could ever have hoped to meet, found a stable job that I absolutely love and pays well, and bought a house that we could afford. I long wondered if I would ever meet a partner with whom I could realistically imagine navigating the exciting waters of parenthood. It seemed highly unlikely, if not outright hopeless. I’m picky. I have high standards, goalposts that I myself struggle to meet on a daily basis. But alas, fate, good fortune, whatever you like to call it, brought me and Jack together and I knew I desperately wanted to meet the child that would be us, our own flesh and blood, our living, breathing embodiment of devoted, romantic love.

I want Jack’s genes. Hard. Yes, there are dirtier things I could write.

But more than that, I trust Jack with my life without question or hesitation. He has come to my medical rescue on numerous accounts for third degree burns, fainting spells, and a dislocated shoulder. He juggles a job that wakes him at 4:30 each morning with errands, house and yard work. He makes the household hum and function smoothly, all while improving it daily so that it feels cozier. He sprawls out on the floor with Milo when they play, or throws the ball far into the back yard for chasing. He looks real cute when he reads in his reclining chair, and even cuter when he falls asleep in it. How can I not imagine a tiny infant nestled under his neck, held against his chest?

It’s enough to make my heart burst. I cry every day with the want and the constant restraint. I consider Jack and I to be responsible, helpful humans who would make enthusiastic, dedicated parents. I also believe we would raise some lovely human beings, as well: a kind son or daughter striving to serve and solve in a messy, chaotic world.

But it’s not just a messy world. It’s a world in which we’re on track to lose upwards of 90% of life on Earth. Birds are dying by the million, insects by the hundreds of millions. A massive die off of more than a billion sea creatures during British Columbia’s June 2021 heat wave caused me deep psychological trauma. I’m still grappling with it. If there’s one thing I gathered from my Geoscience degree (and let’s be honest: I gathered a great deal of knowledge from those four years) it’s that the mass extinction events always, always, ALWAYS start with the ocean. The ocean goes, and all terrestrial life follows.

How can I possibly consider myself a moral person for bringing a person into this world, this planet that literally cannot support his or her life force? The time truly is ticking down. It’s not dramatization. It’s reality. The IPCC report from August 10th, 2021 was dire. Grim. The scientific, conservative consensus of 195 countries. We are, and for sensitive readers I apologize for the cursing, FUCKED. And although we could solve this with existing technology and tapering of consumption, I don’t believe we will ever muster the political will and the cooperation needed. It can’t be done. Humans ruin everything for everyone, even their own children and grandchildren.

And of course, the time is ripe to be procreating. It’s the age window. Although this is mathematically untrue, it feel as though every lady my age, plus or minus seven years, is pregnant or already a mother and beaming with utter joy. I’m happy for them, happy their families are growing, happy they experienced the magic of growing life in their wombs. Humans should look forward to rearing the next generation, to feel hope and awe when they share the magic of our blue planet. I envy these new parents, desire entry into the world myself. I strove to be as prepared for the responsibility of motherhood as I could possibly be.

And yet I hesitate, I vacillate, I weep at the drop of the hat, tear up at depictions and descriptions of pregnancy and motherhood, at the delight, trials, and tribulations of raising a wondrous human to adulthood.

So I just circle my own mind endlessly, observe my friends’ joy from a distance, meet their cute kiddos when opportunities arise. And I am acutely, painfully aware of my personal biological clock ticking down along with that of all life on Earth. My own tell-tale heart in purgatory. Tick… tick… tick.

There doesn’t seem to be a right answer, and I can’t reasonably hope that I will be wise enough to make the best choice when the clock winds down.