A culture that despises children is a culture on its way to extinction.

An Israeli mom reflects on the social ostracism that followed becoming a parent.

Nevertheless, a few years ago, when I was about 34 and my biological clock started waking me up in the morning, I thought I’d carefully bring the subject to the table. It was met with equal amounts of ridicule, contempt, and pity. Some of my friends treated me as if I declared myself a right-wing fascist or just stared at me as if they felt sorry for me for leaving the realm of rational thought and voluntarily crossing over to the other side—the side of brain-dead baby-talk. Having a baby, they explained, is akin to throwing your life away. The thought of not fitting into your skinny jeans for a few months or missing out on nights of debauchery in the presence of some highly regarded international DJ is considered by some a fate worse than death.

For months before I got pregnant, my friends tried to convince me that having a baby would be a horrible mistake. They emailed me links to academic studies and research showing that children don’t, in fact, make you happy. They told me that wishing to reproduce is narcissistic. I couldn’t always argue with their logic, and in hindsight I must admit that they were right in predicting that once I had a baby, I’d be having more conversations about the different shades and textures of poo than political debates or semiotic analysis of films.

But their ignorance turned into outright denial when I actually did get knocked up. From week to week my belly grew, but my friends around the Friday café table didn’t seem to notice—or, maybe, they didn’t want to notice. At one point I couldn’t take it anymore and decided to blatantly point to my baby bump. The first reaction was a series of blank looks. Then: “What? You got a new shirt?”

***

A few months after my boyfriend and I became parents, we found out we weren’t invited to an afternoon barbecue at a friend’s house. I tried to remember if one of us said anything to annoy him, or if a notorious ex might be on the guest list, thwarting our invitation. After some unsuccessful speculation, I decided to confront my friend, who simply said that he was sorry, but the other guests didn’t want babies at their party. I assumed even baby-haters know that a sleeping infant in a baby-carrier wouldn’t be much of an imposition, but maybe they were afraid I’d be so rude as to breastfeed while people are eating—a vulgar and thoughtless act that might propel someone to lose his spareribs.

The Self-extinction of Generation Narcissus.

Who needs children when you can you have a career!?!?!?!

Or dogs?!?!?!?

Or Other People's Children!?!?!?!?

This Slate essay is an amazing exploration of self-discovery into a world with the depth of a petri dish:

Six months ago, a friend asked me if I regretted not having children and it was like a great dam bursting from the bottom of my soul, and I said "yes, yes, it was the biggest mistake of my life!" There it was. The secret wrenched from my gut. Or so it seemed. I do regret it in some ways. We would have been good parents. We wouldn't have screwed up the kids as badly as we thought we would have. Maybe they only would have needed five years of therapy and not 10. I'll never know. But, after I had finally wrung these words from the depths of my being, I understood clearly that indeed it wasn't meant to be for me, and that my life was much better for having made this choice.

We've always had two or three dogs at a time, and they've had our love, attention, and affection. They're spoiled rotten. Better dogs than children. We have been able to go to a lot of interesting places, and we've gone with friends who have kids. I don't think these things are mutually exclusive.
 

I know that we've missed out on a lot. I just wasn't ready to take the good with the bad. By bad, for example, I mean the screaming kid in the restaurant. I have no patience for that. Oh, but when it's yours, you don't mind; oh, but I knew I would, and even today that noise drives me crazy, I just don't have patience for it. Or for kicking the table or for banging on it ... I would not have been the kind of nurturing mother who could deal with that.
 

OPC. Other People's Children. Rent not buy. I have the best of both worlds, a long-term care policy, a retirement fund, and a deal with a loving niece—you make sure that I'm in a nice place that doesn't rip me off and takes care of me if it comes to that, and you get the trust. Everyone wins. We love her. She loves us. We trust her.

That's what it's like for me to be married and not have children.

Well, at least she didn't have to deal with screaming in the restaurant, and dogs can be put down when they become incontinent.

Here's an idea - the best life is one that is fully human. A fully human life is one that learns to die a little to itself out of love. There is no greater love that one can have than the love that one has for one's children.  Denying oneself children is therefor to deny oneself a life that is fully - in the sense of "filled in completely" - human.

Connecting the dots.

Sparx401 posits a connection between child-hating narcissists and the fact that the cities where child-hating narcissists can be found don't seem to be having children.

It's such a crazy idea that it might just be true.