Child Proof

I had no desire to be a mother. I played the part of the good Aunt Claudia even when I was a small child, playing dolls with my two sisters. I'd bathe, diaper, and cradle their toy kids before leaving to pursue more exciting pursuits in the garden or basement. Adults referred to my attitude toward motherhood as "cute," flashing me the same knowing smile that small boys offer when they assert that all girls have cooties. To them, I was just a rambunctious tomboy who would eventually fall in love and submit. Those grown-ups were just partially correct. I did grow out of my tomboy phase, in fact, I did fall in love multiple times, starting with my high school sweetheart, Steven. However, when Steven looked me in the eyes after our senior prom and asked how many children I wanted, I answered emphatically, "none." "None?" Steven was taken aback, as if I'd just revealed a terrible, dark secret to him. "Why not?" I had many reasons, which I lay out that night, but none of them were satisfactory to him. Steven wasn't the only one who felt this way. None of his numerous boy companions appeared to understand or appreciate my feelings. And, while my relationships terminated for various reasons, I always had the impression that babies were a factor. Still, I had faith that I would find my man one day, that one person who would love me unconditionally, without expecting me to have children. I was prepared to hold my breath until he arrived. However, around the age of thirty, I came to terms with the fact that I'm concerned about the possibility of being alone. That I may never get that gut feeling that you get when you know you've found the One. Rather than wallowing in self-pity or settling for second best, I channeled my energy into things I had more control over, such as my job as an editor at a large publishing house, fascinating trips, great times with good friends and interesting writers, and evenings of fine wine and sparkling conversation. Overall, I was happy with my life, and I convinced myself that I didn't need a husband to be happy. After that, I met Ivan. Ivan, who was beautiful, compassionate, and humorous, seemed far too good to be true, especially after I discovered that he shared my thoughts about children. The topic came up the night we met, on a blind date set up by Rile and Anne, mutual acquaintances. We were at Nobu, chatting over yellowtail sashimi and rock shrimp tempura, when a young child, no more than six years old, sat at the table next to us and distracted us. The young man was dressed to impress, sporting a black Kangol hat and a Lacoste polo with the collar turned up. His posture was ramrod straight, and he was proudly ordering his sushi without the help of his parents, with proper pronunciation and all. This was clearly not his first visit to Nobu. In fact, I would have assumed he ate sushi more frequently than grilled cheese sandwiches. Ivan and I were watching him, smiling like people do when they see toddlers or puppies, when I blurted out, "If you have to have children, that's the kind to have." Ivan leaned across the table, whispering, "You mean one with a bowl cut and a cool outfit?" "No, the kind you can take to Nobu on a school night," I explained dryly. "I'm not interested in eating T.G.I. Friday's chicken fingers at any time." Ivan smirked as he cleared his throat. As I noted his little, beautiful underbite, he remarked, "So you don't want to live in the suburbs and eat at Friday's or you don't want kids?" I answered, "Neither. Both. All of the above. I don't want to eat at Friday's, I don't want to live in the suburbs, and I don't want kids," I added for good measure, just in case I hadn't been plain enough. It was a lot to put out there so early in our lives, especially at our age. Ivan and I were both thirty-one years old, which put the topic of children firmly on the list of forbidden topics for first dates for most guys. If you desire children, it's a no-no. If you don't want them, bringing up the subject is comparable to saying that you and Anna Kournikova are close friends and that you and she adore three-ways, particularly first-date three-ways. To put it another way, your date may not think you're marriage material, but he'll certainly like dating you. Because a thirty-one-year-old woman without children equals a low-pressure environment, and most bachelors enjoy low-pressure circumstances, which is why they pursue women in their twenties. It gives them some breathing room and a cushion. On the other hand, I was aware that, as with so many men in my recent past, I may be instantly disqualified for long-term consideration. After all, the majority of individuals, both men and women, consider not wanting children to be a deal breaker. At the very least, I ran the risk of coming across as cold and selfish, two qualities that aren't at the top of the "what every man wants" list. However, in the tumultuous world of dating, I had developed a preference for can dor over stance and posturing. It was a lovely perk of not wanting children that I wasn't racing against the clock. I wasn't interested in ticking boxes on a life blueprint, either. As a result, I was able to be completely honest. Even on first dates, full disclosure is required. So I held my breath after bringing up the kid issue with Ivan, afraid of getting that familiar, critical gaze. Ivan, on the other hand, was beaming as he replied, "Neither do I!" in the joyous and amazed tone that people use when they've just discovered a bizarre coincidence. For example, the time I ran into my third-grade teacher at a London tavern. Perhaps the odds of being on a first date and finding out that neither party wants children aren't quite as tiny as sitting on a barstool on the other side of the ocean, sipping a pint, and gazing up to see a teacher you haven't seen in two decades. But it's not every day that you meet someone who wants to be in a monogamous, meaningful relationship but doesn't want to go through the seemingly automatic process of becoming a parent. Ivan's look indicated that he was aware of everything. "Have you ever observed how couples argue over the advantages of having children early versus late?" he inquired earnestly. I nodded, trying to figure out what color his eyes were, a pleasant mix of pale green and gray with a dark ring around them. He was attractive, but there was something else about him that my closest friend, Emily, refers to as the "sparkle factor." His face was alive and brilliant. He was the type of man you see on the metro and wish you knew, your gaze flitting involuntarily to his left ring finger. "And how is it that freedom, whether it arrives early or late in life, is the key aspect of each scenario?" Ivan continued. I nodded once more. "Well," he remarked as he paused to take a sip of his wine. "If the best part of having kids early is getting them out of the way, and the best part of having kids late is putting off the drudgery, doesn't it follow that having no kids at all is the best of both worlds?" I raised my glass to toast his philosophy and responded, "I couldn't agree more." I saw us resisting nature's forces together (the stuff about man wanting to sow his seed and woman wanting to create life within her) and opposing the social rules that so many of my friends were mindlessly following. I knew I was getting ahead of myself by thinking all of this with a man I'd only met once, but by the age of thirty-one, you can tell whether a guy has potential or not. And Ivan had potential. Sure enough, the rest of our meal went off without a hitch. There were no awkward pauses in the talk, no red flags, and no irritating habits. He asked serious questions and provided excellent advice, answers, and sent signs of attention but not zeal. So, on a first date, I asked him over to my apartment for a drink, something I never do. Ivan and I didn't kiss that night, but as he looked through a photo album on my coffee table, our arms touched. I had to catch my breath every time he turned a page because his skin felt electric against mine.