And none of us are having existential angst about it. We don’t sit around and wonder what will happen when we are old and childless. We don’t worry that we’ll regret it. Mostly it doesn’t even come up.
We aren’t on either end of the spectrum – neither idolizing or demonizing those with kids. There is no eye rolling. There is no rah rah about being able to have sharp-edged furniture or white carpeting. And when friends with children join us, there is no weeping over shared baby photos, no long talks about how little Johnny did this or that or the other thing (unless truly entertaining because kids are fucking funny sometimes). If anything, the minimal parental talk in the room revolves around how lovely it is to be out without kids once in a while. And there are never questions about when you might have kids.
(Sidenote: We don’t talk about our pets like they are our children either.)
And I like it that way. We talk about politics, art, sports, crazy things we did “back in the day,” travel, work, the cost of living, how tired we are, wine, love, sex, movies, live shows we’ve seen and the next ones we want to see.
And we talk about what we want to do with our lives. There remains transition among us. A lack of complacency. A fear of stagnancy. Or maybe uncertainty. What are we doing with all of our time and our expendable earnings? At the prime of our physical and intellectual prowess, when both beauty and brains meet at an equal level before intellect increases and strength fails, what are we doing? Not having kids. That’s all we know for sure.