I am now officially a "woman of a certain age." That means that people will finally stop asking me if I'm going to have babies. 

(Not that 40 isn't a perfectly acceptable age to get knocked up. And I wish every 40+ woman with the yearning for offspring access to hearty and genetically desirable spermatozoon, an accommodating uterus, and a childbirth that is remarkable only in that it results in your wonderful baby. Otherwise known as the vessel into which you will pour the best of your intentions, all of your love and care, every last emotional, intellectual, financial resource you have, while you hope to christ they don't grow up to be someone who keeps human heads in the freezer.)

By an alternating combination of incredible luck and abundant precaution, I have never been pregnant, so I have only ever contemplated the question of motherhood from a purely theoretical perspective, which, obviously, disqualifies me from saying much about the experience of it. But from the first time I saw an infant, pink, yelling and totally confounding, my perception was set: parenthood consisted of being inescapably beholden to a wailing bundle of need that would define every waking hour of life. The thought of a tiny screaming being attached to me like a lamprey was at worst terrifying—at best just exhausting. And my comprehensive conclusion regarding partaking in that state of affairs was a very simple yet highly confident: Nope, no, no thank you. No kids for me. Somehow I didn't take into consideration at all the fact that the screaming infant would grow out of being a screaming infant. That babies, indeed, necessarily become toddlers, then kids—they become little people who are pretty incredible to contemplate. 

But as a teenager, when I truly lived in fear of getting pregnant, I thought babies were super creepy. When I was in college and could take a slightly more circumspect approach, I was still certain I didn't want kids. As I continued into  the self-involved vacuum of my twenties, I revised that statement somewhat to: "I don't really want kids."  But once I was in my thirties and everyone I knew started procreating like they were repopulating a post-apocalyptic civilization, as I got to know these new tiny people who were coming into my life, I realized I had to  revisit my anti-kid stance, perhaps adding a bit of nuance. 

The first step in doing this was making the transition to understanding that when your girlfriend tells you, tearfully, that she's pregnant, those are tears of joy. I got pretty far into my thirties before the news of a pregnancy didn't make me pause a moment and readjust my mind around this new adult world where having babies is a good thing, a desirable thing, a thing people actually want to do. Now when I greet the news of impending kiddos, sometimes second or third kiddos, my immediate reaction is, at last, one of congratulations and happiness. My first instinct is no longer to ask, "Do you know what you're going to do?" Or, "Do you need a ride to the doctor's?" 

Then there is the complicating fact that as a 40-year-old single woman, I find myself taking infrequent dips in the dating pool, when I can stand to. And at this "certain age," it has become clear that most of my romantic options have kids, further poking holes in my staunch I-don't-want-kids stance. Again, further nuance is necessary. Because, while I do steadfastly maintain a complete lack of interest in nine months of pregnancy and the resultant squalling infant attached to my tit, I have come to realize, with some surprise, that I have no aversion at all to being a parent.

I think of all the parents I know (so many now), and how my friends, old and new, are even more amazing people for their bravery and dedication in taking up such an important and challenging task as raising human beings. I think of my own parents and the incredible childhood they provided me with. And I think of the scrum of children who populate dinner parties and barbecues and other formerly adult gatherings, laying down a delight of noise and laughter and refreshing unpredictability.  

So, do I want kids? Yes. It would seem that I do. As long as I don't have to birth them. Which is why, as of this writing, the sexiest thing a man has ever said to me was, "I have a vasectomy." 

Suffice to say it is a good thing to know this about myself. It is this knowledge of myself that has proven one of the few constant, confident, certain things I know. I know it the way I know I love the Pacific Ocean. The way I know I'll never go to Burning Man. The way I love my mom. The way i know a brisk walk on a cold night will always make me feel amazingly lucky to be alive. Not having children of my own is a truth of my life. And if there's one thing I know, being newly of this certain age, these truths are not abundant, but their certainty is bottomless. And it's the depth that matters.