Why Aren’t We Having kids?

And where do they come from?

My generation wants kids - only without any of the life-changing inconvenience of actually having one.

Inflexible millennials like the idea of children, as a sort of abstract, far-off notion, but ideas are not where babies come from, you don’t just conceive children. These child-and-care-free couples plan on having kids sooner or later, but sooner rather than later relaxes into later rather than sooner. Now just doesn’t feel like the right time, but now is the only time you can do anything, really.

The biological timebomb up my girlfriend’s blouse does lend a tick more urgency to the order of things. Now or never, yes, but not now-now. Maybe, the universal egg-timer is a natural mechanism, nudging scared little boys towards finally, and irrevocably, settling down. Even though, without noticing, they’ve been sequentially settled further and further down for years. Internally, men usually structure psychological escape clauses into their commitments. Yes, we are madly in love, and we do live together, and we are engaged, but if this does all goes south… Fatherhood is the mother of all no takesy-backsies. Unless we adopt…

All the nearly-men I know are nervous about the physical strain of having kids - and we’re not the ones compressing a whaling-lifeform out of our peeholes. Just like we practised at our MenForward antenatal classes, I’ll soothe any labour pains with the gentle metronome of a mid-afternoon football radiocast. Rochdale, 0 - Yeovil Town, 0. Barnet, 0 - Grimsby Town, 0. I’ve actually dubbed together a birthing meditation of goalless non-league draws. My Trad-Hubby-doula says the lower-flight nil-nils are much better for my intrapartum hypertension.

Dreams are a privilege of the sleeping. I worry that, overnight, my two navel-gazing obsessions - writing and weightlifting - will become even more self-indulgent and narcissistic. Although, what a relief to just let myself and my dreams go - and live them angrily and fatly through my children. Each night, I’ll hiss unthumbed passages of the Thesaurus past my pregnant girlfriend’s belly button.

It’s not like the last tired, swings at being young are that much fun anyway. I don’t really have a social life to miss, growing a friend seems easier than making one. Plus, I’m sure seeing a living part of myself for the first time compares with watching the first True Detective series for a second.

Harrowing reports from the reproductive front line don’t help. New parents return with the faraway look of soldiers who’ve spent the worst part of a month playing dead in a mass grave. Insisting, one time too many, it’s the best thing that ever happened to them. Get a life, dude. What about Barnet-Grimsby Town? As they haven’t spoken with anyone capable of speech, other than their overburdened partners, they unload a laundry list of domestic struggles. Oh - with a quick side note on the weekly succession of astonishments.

For all you accomplished breeders out there, this article probably smacks of the well-slept naivety of the childless. Maybe we’re self-centred - but, that’s not necessarily bad, egoless yogis will bend over backwards in the hope of centring themselves.

Anyhow, I guess the time is almost here: shut up, crap out a miracle and get on with it.

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If you’re into questions, check these out…

Why are Men Friends with Cunts?

Why Men have No Friends?

Do Real Men Cry?

Are you Work Mates your Mates?