My writing journey has been full of twists and turns, much like my romantic life. Recently, I found out that one of my essays even ghosted me! I was updating my author bio and clicked on the link for my essay only to find the link was broken. I knew that wasn’t a good sign, but I guess some part of me was hoping it was temporary, that it would show back up. I wondered if maybe my essay just wanted to play the field a bit and would eventually return, hopefully for more than a booty call. But that was months ago.

Then, a new friend contacted me with this message:

I wanted to read your essay about your uterus, but the “abstractelephant” link to it on your website takes me to an Indonesian sport betting website. I suppose your uterus could be playing virtual poker, but it seems unlikely. Is the essay still available somewhere to read?

😂 No, my uterus has not taken up a new hobby. Sadly, it appears the literary magazine has new interests that don’t involve me. Believe me, I’ve been ghosted (and I admit, I’ve done my share of ghosting) enough to know when something’s gone for good and it’s time to move on. Time to delete the magazine from my rolodex, but as my friend’s message reminded me, my essay still deserves love.

As I mentioned earlier, literary magazines don’t want used goods previously published pieces, so I’ve decided to share it here.

Here’s what the folks at The Abstract Elephant had to say about it before going MIA:

Is procreation and expanding the gene pool still the end-all be-all of human existence? Though more and more people choose not to have children, the assumption remains that the goal in this game of life is to get married and have children. Of course, this is especially true for women. This essay will resonate with anyone who is tired of hearing about biological clocks or of others telling them what they should do with their bodies.

Without further ado, here is my essay:

My Uterus is Fine. Thanks for Asking.

The sun hadn’t risen, but there I was, sitting in front of Best Buy on sidewalk that had long lost any residual heat from yesterday’s unseasonable warmth. It was the day the Playstation 2 came out. I’d made friends with a girl in line next to me named Chloe. We both liked to game casually, but neither of us would have been there if we weren’t trying to impress our boy-men with how devoted we were.

We were the outliers. Though eighty percent of the people in line were women, most were mothers buying the Playstations for their kids. All around us, women chatted about the myriads of motherhood challenges. The current topic was what teenage boys smelled like. Rotten cabbage was my personal favorite.

“Reason number 453 why I don’t have children,” muttered Chloe. She shook her head and pulled her black biker jacket tighter to guard against the chill.

“Oh my god.” I laughed, “I love it. I’m totally using that.”

And use it I did. I have used that phrase so often that my reasons now number in the thousands. Hearing kids crying used to make my shoulders tense all the way up to my ears, but now, I breathe a sigh of relief and think,

Reason number 343 that I don’t have children.

Though I had baby dolls when I was a little girl, I don’t recall many of my make-believe games involving me as a mother to them. More often, they’d be acting out inappropriately adult situations imitating the bizarre stories from soap operas that my babysitter watched. I cringe to remember the bizarre interspecies sex, torture, amnesia-laced scandals, and acts of hedonism I reenacted with my dolls.

Reason #423: I never have to have to explain where babies come from.

When anyone brought their baby to work, other women flocked to it. I was checking the exits. I had to escape before someone asked if I wanted to hold it; before it had a chance to start crying, puking, or pooping. (Incidentally, reasons 100 through 345 are devoted to matters concerning bodily functions and fluids.) It took me a long time to comprehend what attracted women to babies. I never felt the urge to make that high-pitched coo that other women made when they saw a baby. Then, one day, I saw a kitten, and I heard that same coo burst from my lungs, and suddenly it made sense.

Reason #562 – I don’t have to scold a child for carrying cats by their tails.

Reason #563 – No need to patch up cat-inflicted boo-boos with SpongeBob band-aids.

Somehow though, no matter how many reasons I’d give, everyone seemed to think that I’d change my mind at some point and decide I needed a baby of my own. Even my dear stepfather, who never had children himself, would tell me, “Wait until your thirtieth birthday. Your biological clock will start ticking. Trust me.”

He was the first person I called when I turned thirty, “Hey Steve. You know that biological clock?”

“Yeah, Christina, tell me.”

“Just like I said, still not ticking. Pretty sure it’s broken.”

“Alright, alright. I stand corrected.”

I’ve got to admit that a small part of me wanted a kid, mostly I wanted to see how my high cheekbones and my ex-husband’s glorious red hair might manifest in a child. But that curiosity wasn’t enough to weigh out 6,538 reasons not to. My ex-husband and I would joke that if we had a child, it would be so pale that it would be a live version of the Visible Man anatomy model. Brad vaguely liked the idea of having children—strike that—he wanted one. Just one, and it had to be a boy—a boy named Bane.

“Brad, you can’t just say you only want a boy. That’s not how it works. You can’t control that.”

“Sure, I can.”

Although Brad never went to college and had a Kansas drawl that might indicate a certain level of dimness, he was usually very bright. He could work out how to fix almost anything. He had been an A student in high school, was infinitely better at math than I was, and let’s not even get started on his ability to manipulate. Yet, he nodded and said, “The man determines the sex of the child. There are positions.”

I rolled my eyes hard enough that they rattled in their sockets. “Dude! You can’t possibly believe that. Plus, Bane? Like ‘the bane of my existence?’ Just—no!” I couldn’t help but think that naming a child Bane was an invitation for years of early morning phone calls from the police. “Nope. I am the keeper of the uterus. Sorry Brad, not gonna happen.” (I’d be lying if I didn’t admit immense satisfaction upon learning that his second wife gave birth to a daughter.)

To his credit, he didn’t push the topic and even redirected the issue when his mom told us that she’d picked up a stroller and a crib, “Just in case.”

“Just in case?” He’d asked, “Don’t you think you’re a little old to be having another kid, mom?”

I’m thankful that my own family never hassled me about giving them grandchildren. I had fantastic role models. Two of my great aunts were well-traveled college professors with doctorate degrees. They attended college during the 1930s when it was warned that college might delude women into believing “marriage should be between equals.” Apparently, this was an accurate warning since neither of them ever got married. They set a precedent for women in my family to travel and explore their potential as individuals instead of having children or getting married.

So, it was never an internal struggle for me to turn my back on the joys of motherhood. I recognize that many women do not have this luxury. Many experience immense pressure to forge ahead with this choice before they are old enough to fully appreciate the impact this decision has upon virtually every aspect of their future.

I knew I didn’t want children, and they didn’t expect it. On a deeper level, I knew I didn’t want children with that man. Maybe I should have examined that feeling closer before getting married, but hey, just because I have a college degree doesn’t mean I make good choices. Would I have second-guessed myself had I been in a healthier relationship? Hard to say, but I am profoundly glad that I stood my ground and recognized my power as the keeper of the uterus.

Reason # 2,562: No lifelong ties to a relationship that didn’t work out.

Sure, it doesn’t feel great when people say shitty things like, “But you’re missing out on the whole glory of womanhood if you don’t have children,” or, “Don’t you think that’s selfish?” or “Who will take care of you when you’re old?” Still, I’ve never regretted the decision. If it’s selfish of me to enjoy my freedom, selfish to be content with my life as it is, selfish of me to rejoice in being who I am – then so be it.

This is the modern age. There is no population deficit. Most of us don’t live on self-sustained farms with a need to grow our own labor force. In most cultures, it is not only typical but expected that women have full-time jobs. So why is it still such an expectation that women reproduce?

Is it because it’s still considered a woman’s job to have a baby? Is it because a woman’s body is still not entirely her own? How many times has a woman been told that she should not cut her hair? That she needs to lose weight? That she needs to wear makeup? That she needs to dye her hair? That she cannot get an abortion? And how many women have heard this one, “But you’re so good with children. You should be a mother.” Yeah, I’m also a pretty good driver, but no one’s ever told me I should be a NASCAR driver.

Things are changing, and more and more women choose not to have children, but many people, even in my Gen-X generation, haven’t gotten the memo. People assume if you don’t have children that you must be:

1. A pitiful excuse for a woman who can’t snag a baby daddy
2. A cold-hearted monster who hates children – or
3. You are a broken woman who is unable to have children

Many assume that I fall into the “cold-hearted monster” category. This is unfair and untrue. I think children can be remarkably cute, loveable, entertaining, and even insightful – I just really like that I can return them to their parents when the cuteness starts to waver into the land of meltdown.

Cold-hearted monster vibes

I will never know how many people assume I fall into the “broken woman” category. Most people are smart enough to realize that infertility is not a polite topic of conversation. However, twice on first dates, men have literally asked me, “Is your uterus ok?” after I shared that I had been married for nine years but didn’t have any children.

When I replied, “My uterus is just fine, thanks. It is doing exactly what I want it to,” one of these men went on to ask what form of birth control I used. Why I even bothered to answer is beyond me, but I told him that I had been on the pill.

“Ok, but what else?”

“What do you mean by what else?” I asked.

“What other forms of birth control? Did your ex get a vasectomy?”

I shook my head in disbelief, “Uhh. No. Just the pill.”

“But the pill isn’t 100% effective,” he leaned forward, concern written on his face, “You really do have to wonder if there is something wrong.”

My eyebrows attempted mutiny, and I replied, “No. No, I don’t. The pill is 99% effective. This is our first date. Remind me again why we are having this conversation?”

Can you imagine if a woman asked a man on the first date if he had erectile dysfunction? For people dating in their 40s, this question has a hell of a lot more importance than the health of a woman’s uterus.

And what if there was something wrong? My version of the conversation was uncomfortable enough as it was, but what if I had been one of the many unfortunate women with one tragic involuntary reason instead of 6,538 chosen reasons? For the record, men and women are equally at risk for infertility. Funny that no one ever asked if my ex-husband was infertile.

When I told a friend that I worried that my story was too self-involved for an essay, she said, “How much more universal can you get than a man being concerned about what a woman does with her uterus?”