When I was single, I thought that maybe dating a heterosexual couple would be a good idea (I’m attracted to both sexes). They could do boring things like game night and going to Ikea with each other, then call me when it was time for dinner in nice restaurants and sex afterwards. Everybody would win! I could be my restless, commitment-phobic self and have all the benefits of a real relationship. Unfortunately, my brilliant dating-a-couple idea was never put into action, because I met J. He shared my hatred of Monopoly and Ikea, and seemed unperturbed by my tumultuous life. “I don’t want to be anyone’s wife,” I told J on more than one occasion. “I belong to myself!” I insisted. I was desperately afraid that to marry J would lessen my commitment to myself, to my personal growth and desires. What if I woke up one morning and wanted to move to Peru? What if I couldn’t be monogamous for a lifetime? As my relationship with J deepened and grew, I pondered these questions. The word “wife” had never been a term I wanted applied to me. It seemed submissive and weak, like to use that label was to lay down for the patriarchy. After all, women have a history of being chattel, of not being able to vote, of even being legally raped by their husbands. In the United States, those things have changed, but the terminology has not. I didn’t realize that to be a feminist and a wife can be a radical act, one that helps change the institution of marriage. For me, being a married feminist has been an education. I have learned that I have a bad case of righteous indignation when it comes to cleaning up after I’ve cooked, even if J literally has no time to clean. To me, it’s okay to do the cooking or the cleaning, but if I do both I’m being treated like that traditional “wife” I so dread being. Early in our relationship, we ended up hiring a housekeeper to come every two weeks, because J was so busy and I am both messy and not about to do all the cleaning, particularly for a male partner. These are small things, but to me they have felt big. Our apartment has been my personal feminist battleground, our relationship the one piece of the world I can really change (so far!). I’ve also learned that I can be kind and tender without losing ground. I can be vulnerable and let J take care of me, show weakness and not be judged. Ultimately, it was J who changed my mind about marriage. Despite being a highly masculine man, he is as passionate about women’s rights and status in the world as I am. He owns his masculinity in the best possible way; he is strong but gentle, and always has his own thoughts and opinions. J isn’t afraid to stand up to me, to treat me like a true equal who is worthy of both respect and honesty. He never brought marriage up unless I did, but the way J treated me made me realize that commitment to him could be about love, instead of a loss of self. When it took six months of hell to stabilize my bipolar disorder, J was steadfast and positive, but never condescending. When my beloved horse died, he kept me supplied with tequila and listened to countless stories about her. He saw my flaws and weaknesses and loved me for them, instead of trying to change or shackle me. Two years into my relationship with J, I found myself looking at rings online. I wanted a symbol that I was his, even if I still didn’t want to marry him. He saved up and bought me a beautiful silver band. When he put it on my ring finger one windy night...

My uterus has become the subject of invasive questions and a controversy on a political level. As politicians battle to limit or eliminate reproductive rights in the United States, my patience for frequent inquiries as to my plans for childbearing grows thin. Everyone from friends to my hairdresser seems to be enthralled by the Most Important Question In My Life: When will I have children? Ever since I got married, thereby inducting myself into the Presumed Heterosexuals Who Can Reproduce Without Disapproval Club, the questions have not stopped. At a dinner with friends, soon after my wedding, the same woman asked me twice when we would have children. The second time, I simply said I didn’t want children and it was as if I’d loudly passed gas. The table fell deathly silent before awkwardly beginning small talk again. The looks on people’s faces were confused, suspicious even, but I wasn’t embarrassed. I was actually fairly appalled by her shameless prying, and was not yet used to getting The Question. I have many personal reasons for not reproducing. First and foremost, I have never wanted to be a mother. I hate the sound of children’s laughter, their high pitched voices and sticky hands. I have never felt that I am less of a woman if I stay childless, just as I don’t feel mothers are “less feminist” because of their choices. I deliberately chose a partner who doesn’t want children either; I have always had a plan that did not include babies. Still, sometimes I see my partner do something particularly tender and I feel a little ache because this man would be an incredible father… and he never will be. Perhaps that feeling is hypocritical, because he too is childless by choice. Like me, he has never felt that urge to parent and pass on his genes. Part of what binds us is that absence – the knowledge that instead we will be each other’s family. My lack of desire for children is easy to communicate when asked rude questions. My health issues are not. I was diagnosed with Type 1 Bipolar Disorder in 2009. I take a cocktail of three medications, all of which are contraindicated for pregnancy. Without the medications, I am suicidal, manic, or both at once. My gynecologist has informed me that should I become pregnant, my medications will most likely cause fetal defects before I even know I was pregnant. If I chose to go off my medications for nine months and incubate a fetus, I would be more resistant to the medications when I went back on them, leaving my child with a less than a sane mother. A mother with rage fits and spending sprees, a mother with suicidal urges and panic attacks. As if that weren’t enough of a deterrent, I also have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, which makes it nearly impossible to conceive. I feel no grief over my reproductive challenges; instead, I feel lucky. My body seems to agree with me on this issue and many women cannot say the same. Asking me when I will have children is annoying, but to another woman it may be vastly hurtful, even cruel. Many women have struggled with reproductive challenges, have miscarried, or are otherwise sensitive to this type of badgering. The assumption that all women want children goes hand-in-hand with the assumption that all women are fertile and healthy. My choice to be childless is no more anyone’s business than another woman’s fertility issues, nor is it something to apologize for. In a recent job interview with a department of three women – all mothers – I was asked my plans for having children. Because I wanted the job badly, I did not point out the illegality of the question, but answered with a demure “not right now.” I got the job, but I know I will tiptoe around the “childless”...