JUST PUBLISHED: Why I’m Not Convinced Having Kids Is Worth the Chaos

I’m still undecided about kids. Parenting looks like a lot of work — and not the kind you can delegate or drop when it gets too hard. Whenever I say this, people raise their eyebrows. “You don’t even want one?”

My friends have kids. Their conversations loop around naps and snack times. That’s their whole orbit now. To be fair, I can bore people senseless with Brazilian Jiu Jitsu problem-solving techniques, so I’m not exactly blameless. Still, I don’t want my entire identity replaced with sleep schedules and car seats.

Children’s birthday parties are nuts disguised with balloons. I’ve been to a few, and the script is always the same: screaming, sugar highs, then tears over who got the bigger slice of cake. Kids can be best friends and sworn enemies in the span of three minutes, usually over an icy pole.

The food is the one saving grace: fairy bread, sausage rolls, cocktail frankfurts. A nostalgia buffet for the adults. Honestly, if I could just slip in for a plate of fairy bread and duck out before the screaming starts, I’d happily RSVP ‘Yes!’ every time.

Kids These Days

Today’s kids are drowning in toys. Parents have to stash half of them away in storage because there’s no room. A new toy is adored for about an hour before it’s tossed aside.

When I was little, I had the same handful of toys for years. I played until the paint chipped and the doll legs fell off. We made them last. Maybe that’s why I can’t quite relate when I see children acting like miniature CEOs demanding the latest “product launch”.

The Nostalgia Factor

The tempting upside: having a child gives you an excuse to relive the games you loved.

I enjoyed marbles. I can still hear the clink of a marble bag — cat’s eyes, clearies, steelies, and the prized galaxy sparkles. Someone would yell “Jew drops!” and we’d all scramble, never realising the racism baked into the phrase.

The best marble I ever owned was a deep blue galaxy. Cold, smooth, and heavy in my hand. The chipped ones always sank to the bottom of the bag, but I kept every single one. I can still picture crouching low in the dust, thumb pressed against my galaxy marble, that sharp clack when two collided, the puff of dirt rising.

I remember the day I lost it. It rolled away into someone else’s pocket, and I felt its absence like a heartbreak. Decades later, I still remember exactly how it felt. Maybe having kids gives you a doorway back into that kind of magic.

Freedom, Sleep, and the Cult of Boredom

But then I look at my friends’ lives. They can’t walk 100 metres without someone crying, someone needing a snack, someone flat-out refusing to move. Their weekends are consumed by birthday parties, soccer matches, and dance recitals.

And the conversations — my God. Whole dinner parties derailed by discussions of teething gel, sleep regressions, and whether little Henry is “gifted” because he stacked three blocks in a row.

Within six months of having kids, most of my friends have either greyed up, chubbed up, or given up. It’s boring. Hardcore boring.

My Work, My Sleep, My Holidays

I love my writing, and I know exactly how bad I am without sleep: irritable, scattered, barely functioning. The thought of juggling deadlines with a baby screaming at 3am feels impossible.

Forget spontaneous holidays. Parents don’t do “holidays”. They do “family trips” which are basically exporting their household chaos to a different postcode. Same tantrums, different backdrop.

The Family Pressure

Then there’s my family. My mum, in particular, is unrelenting. If I tell a sweet story about one of my friends’ kids, she replies, “That’s very cute. Now you have one.”

My brothers have never been interested in dating, so apparently I’m the family’s only hope. I don’t want to disappoint my parents, but I also don’t want to have a baby just to keep them happy.

My Furbaby

I already have someone to care for: my dog, Groot. He’s a furbaby with a sweet temperament — better behaved, according to my friends, than most of their kids. He sleeps all day while I write, asks for little more than a walk, and graciously accepts his nightly steak.

He doesn’t throw tantrums, doesn’t demand new toys every week, and sits quietly under the table at birthday parties. Honestly, he’s set the parenting bar impossibly high.

The Question of Missing Out

Still, I do sometimes wonder: what if I’ll regret not having children? I’ve worked hard to build a career, but who do I leave a legacy to? My mum argues kids mean you’ll have someone to care for you when you’re older. And there is something special about seeing adult children grow into friends with their parents.

But then again, some of my friends’ kids are the worst-behaved people I’ve ever met. Everyone insists “it’s different when it’s your own.” Maybe. Or maybe it’s just louder, stickier, and more expensive.

For Now

So that’s where I’m at: fairy bread and nostalgia on one side; sleep, freedom, and dignity on the other.

Maybe one day I’ll change my mind. Maybe I’ll decide the annoyingness is worth it. But for now, I’ll stick with Groot, polish my imaginary galaxy marble, and enjoy not being the most boring person at the dinner table.