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Recently, a book tour gave me the opportunity to travel around America. Budgets being what they are, I primarily chose cities where I had friends who would happily provide me with places to stay. These were homes, almost without exception, filled with children. I have no children of my own, and this felt like a serendipitous chance to catch up with many of the kids in my life.
In America, there is a persistent, pernicious belief that the only way to be invested in a child’s life is to be a parent — and, for women, to give birth to that child. (Ella and Cole Emhoff, among others, would like a word.) In a country that offers so little support to parents, this often feels like a not-so-covert argument for taking women back to a time when they lacked control over their bodies and their finances.
Recently, the Pew Research Center reported that 64 percent of women under 50 who don’t have children say they “just don’t want to.” This has contributed to another round of hand-wringing about birthrates and childless cat ladies. What the seemingly inexhaustible discussion around this topic leaves out is that many people who say they don’t want to birth or parent children do have children in their lives — other people’s. We rarely account for that, nor do we give full weight to the fulfillment these relationships provide.
Which is not entirely surprising. So often we hear about the annoyance of other people’s children — babies crying on planes, kids fussing at restaurants. Rarely do we talk about the pleasure of these little people, or how transformative it is to have children in your life whom you’re not raising.
I’ve been reminded of the joys of these relationships this summer. Most of the kids in my life, I have known since birth. In more than a few cases, I was present at the discovery that there was a child to be expected. Or I was the person on call to wait with a child while her sibling made an entrance. Many are children I have cared for in various stages of their life: I’ve changed countless diapers and dispensed endless bottles; I’ve given baths; I’ve been the emergency pickup contact at school. Several of these kids have vomited on me. I’m in a number of wills as the person these children will come to if, God forbid, something happens to their parents. For some, all of the above apply.
Since June, I’ve spent time variously spooning avocado into a toddler’s mouth and answering questions about what it’s like to get your period. I’ve been taught new card games. I balanced myself in the surf as a 6-year-old clung to me screaming with joy, trusting me not to let go. I attended a children’s performance of “The Little Mermaid” starring one 9-year-old who, as a 9-week-old, I held in my arms while I did an interview for my first book. Summer concluded with my driving a bunch of teens and preteens to one of their many sporting events while I cajoled them to look up from their phones once in a while and talk to me.
It has been a delight. And the experiences I’ve described are, I believe, fairly common among people who take part in the lives of children without raising their own. Yet it is simply not an experience I see reflected back to me in culture.
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Peter Sutherland
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James' World 2 
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