We’re on our first-ever family vacation at an all-inclusive in the Dominican Republic. It’s a few days before my stomach betrays me, and I’m having a great time. The evening is cool with its soft breeze butterfly-kissing my cheeks, the perfect break from a hot and humid day. I’ve had exactly one glass of Prosecco, which makes me feel light and relaxed. I’m sitting on a swing chair watching the nightly show while my husband dances and sings with our cousins’ two-year-old. He puts her down, and she immediately lifts her little hand for him to hold. They stand there for a few minutes, mesmerized by the lights and loud music, before she wants to be picked up again. Instinctively, I think He would make an amazing dad. Maybe we should have a baby. The last time I had a thought like that was during the second COVID lockdown.

Since I turned thirty, motherhood has been buzzing in the back of my mind. I’ve written about it a lot, a short story collection and a blog post on She Does the City, to name a few. I’ve read many books and blogs about womanhood and motherhood (Motherhood by Sheila Heti and The Women I Think About at Night: Traveling the Paths of My Heroes by Mia Kankimäki are my favourites). I’ve read stories of women who had children and ones who didn’t. I’ve read about women who followed their dreams (with or without kids). I’ve read about women whose biggest dream was to have children.

I interviewed the mothers in my life with the idea that I would write my second novel about motherhood. It was going to be about one woman and what her life looked like with children and then without (I outlined 13 chapters and gave up). In truth, I wasn’t researching for a character; I was trying to see if anything I heard would make it click for me. I was trying to see if I was missing out or if there was something inherently wrong with me. I have all the parts, so why don’t I want to do the job that my body was made for?

Even after all of the books and spending time with our nieces, cousins’ kids, and friends’ kids, I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why. I just know. I heard one woman on Instagram say that maybe she was meant to be there for the parents of the children in her life, to help them rather than have children of her own. Babysitting, dropping off dinner, or simply playing with the kids while the parents do what they need to do. That idea resonated with me more than any books I’ve read about motherhood. 

Since my husband and I check in with each other often, I told him about the thoughts that crossed my mind while we were on vacation. We agreed that making life-altering decisions while on vacation or during a global pandemic isn’t a good idea for us. Once reality sinks in, we land on the same answer every time: it’s just not for us. We love being Tia and Zio, and we’re pretty good at it. 

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack OCT 27, 2024*