When Did I Know I Wanted Kids? At Eight—and What It Taught Me About Children’s Play
At least once a week, someone in my preschool classroom announces their future. Last Tuesday it was Elena, in the dress-up corner. She held a doll upside down by one arm and said, “I’m going to have a baby when I grow up. A girl. She’ll wear purple. And I’ll read her every single book.”
Before I could respond, Leo—strapping the same doll into a wooden car—said, “I’m not going to be a dad. Dads go to work and don’t read books.”
I had to stop myself from jumping in. Because “dads don’t read” was not true in either of their homes. Leo’s dad had been in the classroom two days earlier, crouched over a picture book at pickup. But Leo wasn’t reporting from real life. He was trying on a role, and he looked uncomfortable in it.
I also didn’t correct him because his words brushed against something old. I knew exactly when I decided I wanted to be a parent. I was eight. My aunt had a baby, and I got to sit beside her on the couch while she slept. The baby smelled like clean laundry and warm lotion, and everyone in the room lowered their voice around her. I remember thinking, “I want to be the person they are for her.” It wasn’t a carefully reasoned goal. It was a feeling that adulthood might mean becoming a safe place for someone.
I still think about that moment when children talk about who they will be. These statements are rarely about actual future plans. They are stories children are testing. A preschooler who announces “I’m going to be a mommy” is not committing to having kids. She is exploring what it means to be big, responsible, and loving. A five-year-old who says “I don’t want kids because they cry” is not becoming a childfree advocate. He is trying to sort out what makes grown-ups tired.
What helps most is to go deeper, not correct.
In the classroom, after Leo’s declaration, I said, “Tell me more about that. What does being a dad look like?” He shrugged. “You work. Maybe you come home. You sit.” I said, “That sounds like you’re thinking about what adults have to do.” He nodded, then asked if he could make a road out of masking tape. The subject changed. That was fine. His thinking was already moving.
Practical guidance is simple: if a child says they want to be a parent, ask them what that would be like in their imagination. If a child says they never want a kid, ask what happened to make them think about it. “Tell me more about that” is a stronger phrase than “That’s wonderful” or “You’ll change your mind.” The second versions end the conversation. The first keeps it open.
The next day, I brought out a few books that showed families that didn’t fit the standard picture. A father stays home and braids his daughter’s hair. A mother works night shifts and the grandmother does breakfast. I didn’t underline the message. I just read and let the children react. Elena noticed: “The daddy knows how to braid hair?” Leo asked, “My dad doesn’t know that, right?” We laughed. Later, he built a house out of blocks and said it was for “me and a dog, and maybe a kid if it doesn’t whine.”
That’s what development looks like—not a big moral shift, but a crack in a narrowing idea.
Parents can do the same thing in lower-stakes moments. If your child decides that “mommies cook and daddies fix things,” you don’t need a lecture. You can respond in the role: “In this family, who fixes the squeaky door?” Or switch the teddy bear’s job in the dolls’ house and see if your child notices. Children absorb exceptions through ordinary actions, not through instruction.
I also think about children who seem to be rejecting parenting before they are old enough to understand it. Sometimes they say “I never want to have kids” because a baby sibling has made them angry. Or because they heard a parent say “This is exhausting.” A response like “You sound really sure about that—did something happen today?” is more useful than “Oh, you’ll love it when you’re older.” It tells the child that adult roles can be examined, and that their feelings are data, not identities. Some children will grow up and decide parenting is not for them. That’s not a failure. The goal is for them to think clearly about what kind of adult they want to be, not to talk them into one particular answer.
I was eight when I decided I wanted to be a parent. I gave that decision to a small sleeping baby who fit in my aunt’s arms. Later, I had to learn the rest: the middle-of-the-night worry, the discipline, the boredom, the way fatigue can make you short-tempered. That has been useful in the classroom. When a child talks about being a mother or father, I don’t see a promise. I see them practicing how to take care of someone, and I try to help them practice carefully.
Elena will probably change her mind several times. Leo may become a dad, or not, or maybe he’ll decide to be a teacher, or just a guy with a dog and an interesting life. I don’t know. I do know that a child’s announcement about the future is less important than the thinking underneath it. For now, that’s where I put my energy.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » When Did I Know I Wanted Kids