by Emma Gannon
I sigh and pace up and down on the grass, trying to stamp down on my anxiety and the niggling feeling in my chest that I can’t quite make sense of. Perhaps I acted selfishly this evening, perhaps not. We are all at a crossroads—that much is clear—but things are about to change even more. With Cec’s impending baby, she and Bea will have even more in common as they talk nonstop about kids, and then if Isla’s IVF works out, I will officially be the odd one out. What if I have nothing to talk about with them anymore, drifting further and further away? My friends have always formed a part of my identity; they make me me. But without them, who will I be then?
I wake up abruptly the next morning, feeling as though my eyes have been closed for all of ten seconds. Shit, why hasn’t the alarm on my phone gone off yet? Bea sneaks in and puts a cup of tea beside the blow-up bed.
“It’s 11 a.m., babe,” she whispers.
“Oh fuck, really?”
In that moment I feel like I might be Bea’s teenage daughter.
“Cec’s already gone; she didn’t want to wake you. Do you want some pancakes?”
There’s the Bea I know and love: a feeder, a mother hen. And right now, to be honest, I’m more than happy to be taken care of.
5
I sit down at my desk at work holding a mint tea in a chipped mug that says “World’s Best Wife” on it. The communal mug cabinet really does have some atrocities in there. Colin wanders over, holding a mug bearing Paris Hilton’s face.
“Morning, babe. Good weekend?” he asks, taking a sip.
“Yeah, was all right, I s’pose.” After I got back from Bea’s I just lay horizontal on my sofa for hours watching Queer Eye, while Bea was running around a football field with her kids and Cec was babyproofing her house. “Is it just me that finds weekends actually quite annoying and draining?”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno, just the pressure of it. Having to face up to real life without the distraction of work,” I say, sighing.
“I know what you mean, actually. The stuff you cram to the back of your mind during the week really comes out to play. I pulled a really fit guy this weekend, though, so I’m happy,” Colin says proudly.
“Good for you! You deserve some good news in that department.”
“My trouser department? You bet I do!” he says, knowing full well not to broach the topic of my love life right now.
“I’m just happy it’s Monday, to be honest. Sometimes I think .dot is the only place where I actually feel like myself. Like I’m moving forwards.”
“Well quite—.dot would be nothing without you.”
“Thanks, Col. Right, well I’d better live up to my reputation and get on with a few things.”
He air-kisses me and floats off back to his reception desk.
I open the Google homepage and crack my knuckles. I need to properly start this assignment from Gill about millennials choosing pets over motherhood. Let’s start with a broad search. I take a deep breath and type “Do Millennials Want Kids?” into the toolbar.
I love that I’m technically paid a monthly wage to fall down crazy internet rabbit holes and ask people nosy questions. I love that my Google algorithm has no real idea who “Olive” is, or anything about my personality, as my searches are always related to the varying topics of my articles. My online search quickly leads me to a blog post called “Sterilize Me: My Mission to Never Have Kids” written by a millennial woman who goes by the name of Ariana. No surname, no picture. Her profile is anonymous. But it’s honest and open, as most anonymous-ish blogs go.
Welcome to my blog. I’m Ariana, and I don’t want kids!
[EDIT: You might have seen this blog post get picked by some national news outlets; for any snooping journalists, I am not interested in doing mainstream interviews, or sitting on the sofa next to a certain horrible argumentative man on national TV. I wrote this blog to speak out to other women; I did not do it for online fame.]
I’m 24 years old, and I have been researching ways that I can get sterilized since I was 18. I can’t explain it more simply than this: I know, deep, deep in my bones that I never, ever want to create another human being. It does not appeal to me, my life, my plans. No one will listen to me! They think I will change my mind! Why? The NHS has said over and over that they won’t perform the operation. The doctors have said no, because I am so young and “might change my mind.” But I know I won’t. Also, there’s a strange double standard going on. If you do decide to have kids, you can’t change your mind then, can you! Seems a little one-sided, that argument. I feel really unheard right now. And that not wanting kids still feels like a huge, awful taboo. The doctors were shocked by my request, and the word got out in the small village where I live, and I have had really horrible notes slid under my door. People are saying that hospital money should be spent on other issues, not my selfish act. Becoming a mother is a very, very serious decision, and so is *not* having them. I wish that I could choose what to do with my own body, and that is to make sure I never have them. Some people are desperate to have kids. I am desperate not to. Please, please, tell me I’m not alone.
@boyo21: Well done for openly admitting that you’re selfish.
@sunshine_girl: I used to feel like this too, Ariana. But, I am 43 now and little Gracey came into my life and I’ve never been happier. I never thought I’d change my mind. Please, don’t rule it out.
@planethappy1: Yes it is a very big responsibility but by far the best thing that happened to me. You might hate other people’s kids, but seriously you will never feel love for anyone as much as you will for your own child.
@sammy15: lesbian
@lookmum156: fair enough ariana but i think you’ll change your mind one day. Doctors are right not to do it.
@saladlover100: bitch whore
@julie_smith: I’ve known from the age of about 12 that I never wanted kids. I’ve always found children irritating, even when I was a child myself. I hear you.
@james_smith_90: MUPPET!!
I take in a deep, slow breath. I feel sick at the judgment that people have towards women like Ariana. It still feels like such a dirty topic, a dirty confession. I realize I’m not shocked by her words, even if I’ve never read anything like this before. And there’s no hiding it: I feel intrigued. It’s a rush. My face gets closer and closer to the screen until the comments begin to blur. I start typing out a comment: “Ariana, I just love your honesty. Would you be open to meeting up for a coffee?” Then I notice my username is set to my real name—@olive_stone_—and I immediately delete it. I also do a quick check that no one is looking over my shoulder.
6
After work, I WhatsApp Cecily and ask if I can come over. I feel as if we didn’t really speak properly at Bea’s, and I’m worried that I was being too jokey and mean.
Me: Hello babe are you free this eve for a visitor?
Cec: ooh that’s a LOVELY idea. Yes please. Chris is out with the lads, I’m on the sofa, feeling like a whale in thick socks.
Me: Not a whale. Yay see you v soon.
I have to see her properly before the baby arrives. Nothing beats one-on-one time. I nip home first, and grab a giant frozen tub of homemade macaroni and cheese that Zeta made me when the breakup first happened and I couldn’t quite stomach anything. They say the best gift to give any pregnant woman, or new parent, is food. Not flowers, because that’s just one extra thing to keep alive. I realize on my way over that this is probably the last time I will see her before she is a mum—Cec, being just Cec, on her own. The thought makes me feel a bit teary, but then she answers the door and I push out a smile.
Cecily and her husband, Chris, live in a big Georgian terraced, high-ceilinged West London house—the kind with sleek white columns in front of the door. The elephant in the room is always that Cecily’s house is much nicer than the rest of ours. Bea’s is gorgeous but also a kid-infested
circus. Cec’s looks like an Architectural Digest photo shoot. She has a roll-top bath with a marble floor, for god’s sake. Her hallway is big enough that it has room for a blue velvet sofa on one side as you walk in. I try not to be too jealous that Cecily’s casual sit-down-and-take-your-shoes-off hallway sofa is nicer than my main living-room sofa that took me five years to pay off. It can be awkward when your mate has way more money than you. But she is an award-winning lawyer. I am a not-yet-award-winning writer. We made different choices, so it doesn’t really make sense to be jealous. But still, it’s the easiest thing in the world to compare yourself to others—especially your best friends and their velvet hallway sofas.
She answers the door in a red stretchy maternity jumpsuit and gives me a huge hug, excitedly taking the tub of macaroni and cheese from my hands. I hang up my faux fur jacket on her wooden coat stand and kick off my sneakers. Cec walks down the hallway; from the back, she doesn’t really look pregnant, then she turns to the side, and it’s like she’s suddenly swallowed a giant beach ball. It amazes me how flexible she still is as she squats down to pick up a plate from the lower cupboard in the kitchen.
“Want me to get those?” I ask.
“No, it’s all good. I’ve been going to this yoga class thing,” she says, straining. “It’s good, except for the fact that it’s full of mummy bloggers.”
“How do you know?” I laugh.
“I don’t. I’m just being a judgmental bitch.”
“You’re allowed to be; you’re pregnant.”
“What will be my excuse for being a bitch to people after I give birth?” She winks.
“You’ve had a whole nine months of getting away with anything and everything,” I say, putting my arm around her.
“Yep! And that is the only thing I’ll miss about pregnancy.”
She is so rotund now, as if the weight of the huge bump could topple her over, but she’s flexing and stretching and bouncing her legs on the floor in a sort of frog-like position.
“Wanna see the Baby Room?” Cec asks excitedly.
“Yes, of course. And look, Cec, I’m sorry if I was a bit off at Bea’s at the weekend. I don’t mean to make it about me. I just don’t want to drift away from any of you.”
“I understand, Ol. There’s a lot going on with all of us at the moment. I promise I’m not going anywhere, though. If anything I’ll be imprisoned in this house for months and will be desperate for grown-up chat,” she laughs.
We walk down the corridor with her fluffy cream carpet beneath my bare feet, and I can already see a big sign on the back wall of his bedroom, lit up and spelling out OSCAR in pink neon writing. Piles of stuff are folded and stacked up by the cot: diaper bag contraptions and milk thermometers and some really techy-looking stuff.
“Jeez, how much did all this cost?” I say, doing the mental arithmetic, looking at all these miniature designer objects and freaking out.
“Oh, I don’t know! Do you like it, though?”
“It’s very cute.” It looked like an IRL Pinterest board.
“I like the fact it’s pink. Fuck the ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ color norms,” she smiles to herself, admiring the room she’s created for Oscar.
“It’s very cool. God, Cec, I still can’t get my head around it. You’re going to be a mum.” I reach down into the cot and pull out a small, soft bunny.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s a new beginning for sure, but things won’t change too much.”
“But who am I going to call now at 2 a.m. when I’m in the middle of a panic attack?” I laugh. “And who’s going to try out the latest supper club with me? Go dancing and get filthy takeaways?” I’m trying to sound upbeat, but my voice starts to shake slightly.
“Oh, Ol, I’ll still be available. I’m not disappearing off the face of the earth.”
“I’m excited for you. I am,” I say, rubbing her arm.
“Thank you.” Cec looks so content. “C’mon, let’s go downstairs. Ooh, I can make you a posh hot chocolate with my new drinks kit from Liberty. It was a gift from Chris’s mum. She drives me insane, but at least she gives good gifts.” She winks.
Seated in Cecily’s kitchen, I slurp at my hot chocolate, having eaten all the miniature marshmallows that were floating on top in record time. Suddenly, now feels as good a time as any to broach the breakup.
“Talking of new beginnings . . .” I say, with marshmallows still in my mouth.
“Oh yeah?” Cec asks excitedly.
“Oh, it’s not a good thing . . .”
“Oh right, sorry.”
“I don’t really even want to say it, to be honest.”
“Go on . . .”
“Jacob and I broke up.”
“Huh?” Cec can’t hear as her noisy kettle is making a weird sound, and I guess I did have my mouth slightly full.
“Jacob. And me. We . . . we split up,” I say more loudly this time.
“No?” Cec’s eyes widen in shock.
“Oh god, I don’t want to stress you out; you’re with child.” I fold my arms on the table then and hang my head.
“Ol! You’re not stressing me out. When, what, why? When did this happen?”
“Oh, really recently,” I lie. “I didn’t tell you because, well, I wasn’t sure if it was definitely over. I mean it definitely is now. Haven’t heard a peep for weeks.”
“Weeks? And you didn’t tell me?” She looks genuinely hurt.
“Sorry, I just . . . It didn’t feel like something I could say over a message, and I didn’t want to be annoying when you’ve been busy preparing for the baby.”
“Oh fucking hell, Ol. Having a baby doesn’t mean I will forget that everyone else exists.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“What happened?” she says, handing me a piece of homemade cake.
“We just realized that . . . we want different things.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I look down at my mug. Cec’s Siamese cat, Harvey, wraps his tail around my leg, as if he knows I need comforting.
I take a breath. “Well, I guess we just had one last bad argument that seemed to be the final blow. The last available opportunity to get all those feelings off our chests, but we both knew there was no coming back from that. He accused me of having no emotions, using the people closest to me for story ideas to pitch to the magazine. He would often joke that—when something really terrible or really great happened—he could see the cogs of my brain turning immediately to come up with a headline or caption.”
“Whoa, yes, that is harsh.”
“Do you think I do that? Mine people for their stories, for .dot?”
“Not really. Not in a malicious way, anyway. You write what you know.”
“Exactly. He complained a lot about how I was never truly ‘in the moment’ or ‘living my life.’ He started sounding like a Buddhist monk, and it really started to piss me off.”
“It does sound a bit smug.”
“Very smug! Like, mate, you’re not a bloody guru.”
“Olive, was there anything else?” she asks gently. “I mean, it sounds like a disagreement, but not something to throw away nine happy years for. Is there something else going on between you two?”
“Well . . . actually, yes.”
“Go on.”
“He’s ready to have kids,” I say bluntly.
“And?”
“I’m not.”
“Okay,” she says. “And do you know when you might be?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I close my eyes and try to imagine myself as a mother, but for whatever reason, I just can’t.”
“Each to their own, Ol. I remember when we used to chat about the big ‘baby’ question. We both weren’t sure for a long time.”
“But then most people move on and decide
to do it. I mean, look at you. Can I ask—how did you know, that you and Chris were ready to have a baby?”
“Hmm, well, I always sort of knew deep down, I think. I thought I’d be a much older mum, though, because I wanted to be a partner in my firm before I did the baby thing. But my body sort of took over, and I started obsessing over the idea, I guess. Sometime around the end of last year, I woke up one morning, and it was like my body wanted it. Craved it like sugar. Like I didn’t have a choice. It was weird; I was as surprised as you, honestly. Then, you know, it just happened quite quickly.” Cecily laughs, and runs her hands over her bump.
“Wow. I just feel like everyone’s always so surprised when I say I don’t think I want kids. Like they’re sad for me.”
“Babe, it’s your life. I’m proud of you for staying true to yourself even though you must be hurting right now.”
“Thank you.” I hug her. I miss her, even though she’s right here.
“Oh, Ol. Let’s put on a film and get the blankets out.” Cec waddles over to her big wooden cabinet and gets out cozy things like candles, hand cream, room scents, and extra cushions. Time to nest. Each moment we have alone together now is a ticking time bomb before OAP comes. The minute she has this baby, nothing else will matter. She says it will, but it won’t. I’ve already experienced it with Bea; our friendship suffered massively when she had her first baby. We didn’t speak to her or see her for six months, maybe even a year. None of us anticipated how much of a shift it would cause. It was like losing a family member—and in some ways perhaps that triggers me. Cec will have a new love, a deeper love. And that’s the way it should be. But it won’t be the same between us after that. I hug into her closely on the sofa that evening, and when I go to leave later, I linger by the front door awkwardly.