Baby proof

inquiries regarding our plans to procreate from everyone and anyone: Ben's family, my family, friends, random mothers in the park, even our dry cleaner.

'We're not going to have children,' one of us would matter-of-factly reply, and then we would tolerate the inevitable chatter that followed about how much children enrich your lives.

Once, at a book party, an editor came right out and told me that if I didn't have kids at some point, then my life 'would be devoid of meaning.' Now that's a pretty extreme statement. I think I said something like, 'Well, gee, I might as well off myself now then, huh?' She pretended not to hear me and kept going on about her children.

Another common response was the sympathetic nod from people who believed that we were actually concealing a painful truth: our inability to conceive. Like the time a friend of Ben's from college slipped me a business card with her fertility clinic information scrawled on the back. I handed it to Ben who promptly announced to his friend that he had had a vasectomy several months into our marriage. This wasn't true-I was on the pill-but there was something about his statement that both shamed her and shut her up.

And the final recurrent motif was the whole, 'Who is going to take care of you when you're old?' query. Ben and I would say, 'Each other.' They'd (unbelievably) respond, 'But what about when one of you dies?' At which point, things would really become cheery. Occasionally I'd point out that nursing homes are filled with people whose children never visit. That children are no guarantee of anything. You could have a kid who becomes a poor, struggling artist. Or a kid who grows into a selfish, ne'er-do-well adult. Or a kid who has special needs that render him unable to care for himself, let alone his elderly parents. Bottom line, Ben and I agreed that worrying about your care is a stupid, selfish reason to procreate anyway. We preferred to work hard and save our money, rather than burden a future generation.

But over time, we learned to keep quiet on the subject. It was so much easier that way. We would simply exchange a knowing glance and then discuss it all later. We were annoyed by the narrow-minded assumption that children were a given, but at the same time, we enjoyed the underlying smugness that came from being part of a child-free union. Our relationship was about freedom and possibility and exploration. We were together because we wanted to be together. Not because we needed a partner in parenthood or because children were keeping us together, caging us with eighteen years of obligation.

Then, about two years into our marriage, something changed.

It was subtle at first, as changes in relationships typically are, so it is hard to pinpoint the genesis. But, looking back, I think it all began when Ben and I went on a ski trip with Annie and Ray, the couple who had set us up on our first date. I had known Annie since our bingeing college days, so I noticed right away that she was sticking with Perrier. At first she claimed to be on antibiotics for a sinus infection, but the whole antibiotic excuse had never slowed her in the past so I dragged the truth out of her. She was eight weeks pregnant.

'Was it planned?' I blurted out, thinking surely it had been an accident. Annie adored her career as a documentary filmmaker and had a million different causes on the side. She had never expressed an interest in having children, and I couldn't fathom her making time for motherhood.

Annie and Ray clasped hands and nodded in unison.

'But I thought you didn't want kids,' I said.

'We didn't want kids right away,' Annie said. 'But we feel ready now. Although I guess you're never completely ready!' She laughed in a high-pitched, schoolgirlish way, her cheeks flushing pink.

'Hmm,' I said.

Ben kicked me under the table and said, 'Well, congratulations, guys! This is awesome news.' Then he shot me a stern look and said, 'Isn't that wonderful news, Claudia?'

'Yes. Wonderful,' I said, but I couldn't help feeling betrayed. Ben and I were going to lose our favorite traveling companions, our only close friends who were as unfettered as we were by babies and all their endless accoutrements.

We finished dinner, our conversation dominated by talk of children and Westchester real estate.

Later, when Ben and I were alone in our room, he chastised me for being so transparently unsupportive. 'You could have at least pretended to be happy for them,' he said. 'Instead of grilling them about birth control.'

'I was just so shocked,' I said. 'Did you have any idea?'

Ben shook his head and with a fleeting expression of envy said, 'No. But I think it's great.'

'Don't tell me you want them now, too?' I asked him, mostly joking.

Ben answered quickly, but his words registered flat and false. 'Of course not,' he said. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

Over the next few months, things only got more troubling. Ben became all too interested in the progress of Annie's pregnancy. He admired the ultrasound photos, even taping one to our refrigerator. I told him that we were not a 'tape things to the refrigerator' kind of family.

'Jeez, Claudia. Lighten up,' Ben said, appearing agitated as he pulled down the murky black-and-white image and slapped it into a drawer. 'You really should be happier for them. They're our best friends, for chrissake.'

A short time after that, right before Annie and Ray had their baby, Ben and I planned a last-minute weekend getaway to the resort where we had been married. It was early January when the abrupt disappearance of Christmas decorations and tourists always makes Manhattan seem so naked and bleak, and Ben said he couldn't wait until early March for our tentatively planned trip to Belize. I remember tossing some shorts and a new red bikini into my leather duffel and remarking how nice it was to have spontaneity in our relationship, the freedom to fly off at a moment's notice.

Ben said, 'Yes. There are some wonderful things about our life together.'

This sentence struck me as melancholy-even ominous-but I didn't press him on it. I didn't even pressure him to talk when he was uncharacteristically taciturn on our flight down to the Caribbean.

I didn't really worry until later that night when we were settling into our room, unpacking our clothes and toiletries. I momentarily stopped to inspect the view of the sea outside our room, and as I turned back toward my suitcase, I caught a glimpse of Ben in the mirror. His mouth was curled into a remorseful frown. I panicked, remembering what my sister, Maura, once said about men who cheat. She is an expert on the topic as her husband, Scott, had been unfaithful with at least two women she knew of. 'Look out if they're really mean or really nice. Like if they start giving you flowers and jewelry for no reason,' she had said. 'Or taking you away on a romantic getaway. It's the guilt. They're trying to make up for something.' I tried to calm down, telling myself that I was being paranoid. Ben and I always took spontaneous trips together; we never needed a reason.

Still, I wanted to dispel the lingering images of Ben pressed against a sweaty bohemian lover, so I sat on the bed, kicked off my flip-flops, and said, 'Ben. Talk to me. What's on your mind?'

He swallowed hard and sat next to me. The bed bounced slightly under his weight and the motion made me feel even more nervous.

'I don't know how to say this,' Ben said, his voice cracking. 'So I'll just come out with it.'

I nodded, feeling queasy. 'Go ahead.'

'I think I might want kids after all.'

I felt a rush of relief and even laughed out loud. 'You scared me.' I laughed again, louder, and then opened a Red Stripe from the minibar.

'I'm serious, Claudia.'

'Where is all of this coming from? Annie and Ray?'

'Maybe. I don't know. It's just… it's just this feeling I have,' Ben said, making a fist over his heart.

At least he hasn't cheated on me, I thought. A betrayal of that magnitude could never be erased or forgotten. His fleeting wish for a child would surely go away. But as Ben continued to spout off his list of reasons why a baby might be a good thing-stuff about showing children the world, doing things better than our parents had done-my relief gave way to something else. It was a sense of losing control. A sense that something was slipping away.

I tried to stay calm as I delivered a rather eloquent speech. I told him that all of that parenthood stuff wasn't who we were. I said that our relationship was built upon our unique twoness, the concept that three or more is a