Do We Really Need More Babies? Part Two

Further thoughts on reproduction

Following my recent post about pro-natalism on the political right, the New York Times published an opinion piece on June 1 that focusses on the viewpoint of those very people who should be making all those babies. “Why Do Millennials Dread Having Babies,” written by Michal Leibowitz. The piece opens with a few lines from the Philip Larkin poem “This Be the Verse,” that make me smile because I remember reciting the lines with friends in college and in the years after in a mock “Downton Abbey” posh English accent. The Times, being a family magazine, didn’t print the first line exactly as written.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

Larkin’s poem acknowledges the inevitable damage caused by even the most well-intentioned parents. We carry the baggage we inherited, and we can’t help but dump that on our kids. He suggests that given the state of humanity, the best remedy—harsh medicine—is not having babies.

Of course, many parents aren’t well-meaning at all, but rather hopeless, or at worst cruel, compounded by the utter failure of our society to support this most important project of perpetuating the species.

Mistakes, I made a few. Make that a thousand. There is no job harder than parenting, in part because no matter how many books you read in advance, nothing can truly prepare you for the complete upheaval of your life. One minute you’ve got a baby rolling around in your belly, happily partaking of your life force, and then that baby emerges as a helpless creature, capable of breathing and suckling and not much more. Everything must be learned, both by parents and baby. Especially as regards mothers, we behave as if this learning should all come naturally, when a step-by-step instructional manual would be very welcome.

I recall vividly the moment when I realized that I was not up to the job. It was the morning after delivery, at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, and I was soon to be ejected. My husband was hunting for our tiny red Honda Civic, parked somewhere nearby, but where? I was attempting to diaper and dress our newborn, in preparation for going home and I could not manage this task. I was wrung out after 30+ hours of labor. Everything down below hurt like hell. I was having difficulties nursing. My baby was, thankfully, healthy, but quite small, so the onesie I’d brought was too big. I managed to get the diaper on—my baby was an adorable squirmy one—but the onesie just wasn’t happening. I was failing, on Day 2. At last a nurse came in, found me in tears, and helped me.

During my pregnancy, I’d nurtured a dream that I could be a good mother, that I could have a different relationship with my daughter than I’d had with my mother. I sensed that I would not be the kind of mom who bakes cookies in the afternoons. I’d be the kind of mom who buys excellent cookies, but that would be ok. I could do parenting better because I was smart and I’d read books and I had a great therapist and all my friends were doing parenting too.

Within days, we could both change a diaper in the dark, while half asleep, and the doula I hired taught me how to help my baby latch on without ravaging my nipples. Soon I was nursing everywhere: on the subway, in Union Square, while at my desk, with a phone crooked in my neck. Feeding and diaper changing and easing squirmy arms and legs into onesies turned out to be the easy part.

I tell my now grown daughter these stories, accenting the absurd humor. Trauma plus time=comedy, right? And we both laugh a lot. We can even laugh about the years of adolescence, and now I get to hear about all the bad things that I didn’t know about then—like the shroom parties in Prospect Park. It’s a privilege to hear these stories. I think a lot about my relationship with my mother with whom I could not share my inner life and I’m grateful that we are where we are now.

One thing we talk about often is the state of their generation. I wonder if my kid will have children. In the immediate friend group, admittedly a small poll taken in New York City, where apartment rents are sky-high, so far there have been no weddings or babies. One of my kid’s friends was invited to a destination wedding in Italy. I know things are different in other towns and cities where the cost of living is more manageable. These kids are pursuing their dreams, large and small, as best they can. Some of them have suffered serious trauma: death of a parent, parental neglect, financial hardship. Some have worked with therapists, embraced sobriety, made radical career shifts in hopes of creating a fulfilling life. They do not care about the falling birthrate and its implication for the future economy, the reliability of Social Security, and Medicare. In a way I admire, they think about the dreams and plans for the near future, not the future we are busy burning up. They think about they can do on their own. Go to graduate school. Make music. Find a different profession. Start a business. Find love. Find a nicer apartment.

I see babies in Brooklyn and up here in the Hudson Valley. My partner’s niece and her husband have two lovely kids. They are terrific parents and they have grandparents a few streets away who happily help out. However, as Michal Leibowitz notes, for many people now in their twenties and thirties, choosing to have a baby is becoming something like a luxury experience. A would-be middle-class mother needs money and stability, the prospect of future employment or a partner for financial support. More reliable birth control means fewer unwanted pregnancies, which has to be a good thing, unless you’re JD Vance, Ross Douthat, Elon Musk, or adherents of any number of religious sects that forbid the use of contraception.

Since no help is coming for this generation, who can blame young people for choosing their freedom for a bit longer, or maybe forever?

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