An old woman reflects in our national newspaper of record on how wonderful it was once upon a time to have exterminated her unborn child — whom she well could have afforded to raise, but found inconvenient to her desires — without having anyone present to make her feel bad about it. Excerpts:
I love my children with a passion, but I don’t want any more. I know this with absolute certainty. I’ve got other things to do, and I don’t have it in me to be a good enough mother to a fifth child. I delight in newborn babies with their delicate weightlessness, the curl of their small fingers around my thumb, but the best thing about them now is that they belong to other people. I don’t want to bear them, feed them, bring them up, be responsible for them.
I don’t want this child.
Two years later, I’m driving upstate by myself. I look down and think that if I hadn’t had the abortion, there would be a baby seat next to me with a small child in it, resting comfortably, knowing it would always be safe because I was in charge. It might be a girl — I would have liked to have a daughter in the family mix.
But I’m not grieving over the absence; I don’t have and never have had a single qualm about not bringing that child into the world.
Absolutely monstrous. Not too far down the line: editors who believe publishing an essay like this strikes a blow in defense of civilization. In fact, it’s barbarism.