"How many children do you have?" asked the nanny who takes care of some kids on our block, right after introducing herself to my husband and me one bright summer afternoon, the day we came to see our new house.

Valerie Block is the author of the novels Don't Make A Scene (Ballantine, 2007),...read more

"We don't have children," I said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"We've only been married a month," I said, but both questions annoyed me. I'd been desperate to flee the city for some time, but it was the need for space and quiet, plus the urge to plant things that drove the move, not children.

That was five years ago, and we still don't have children. Don't ask. But you'd be surprised how many do. Very often, it's the first question, and the reaction to the response is telling. Our first New Year's in the suburbs, my husband and I went to a raucous multi-generational party that began at 4:30 pm and ended at 7 pm, so that people could go out to play at First Night with their kids. The host introduced me to a woman who lived nearby. She had four or five children.

"How many children do you have?" she asked.

"We don't have children."

She stared at me as if I had told her I ate my chicken raw. "You don't have children? What are you doing here?"

Was she about to show me the door? "I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you move here, if not for the children?"

As if the charming local architecture, the greenery, the sophisticated town and the skyrocketing property taxes were not intrinsically attractive.

"We moved here on principle," I said.

She snorted. "And what principle would that be?"

"Nice town," I said, and the woman moved on. Clearly, I had nothing to offer her.

I've noticed in life that some people are site-specific. They disappear from your life when you leave the job, the school, the neighborhood. Then there are people who will always be friends, no matter how far their lives diverge from your own. And then there are people who affect you like an immediate allergic reaction, no matter how much in common you might have with them.

Perhaps that scornful matron at the party was asking why we would pay such high taxes if we didn't have children in the schools. When we moved to our green town, we had hopes for children, so the good school system was an attraction. Five years and no kids later, we think that the schools are just one of many attractions in town, and that in a community, all the kids are "our" kids. We've made quite a few friends here, some with children, some without. Many of our new friends are "dog people," as we are, but quite a few are "cat people," and some are allergic to all furry things. I never shake someone's hand at a cocktail party and ask, "How many dogs do you have?"

Some of our friends know each other, but do not socialize, as they have children of different ages. We've heard people talk about having to "break up" with other couples because of differing parenting philosophies. (Why not go out without the kids, I wonder?) Several of our friends have confided that it's a delight to be with us, not just because we're delightful (we are), but because it's a relief to talk about something other than children.

All over town, I see that woman with the big brood who discarded me so rapidly at the New Year's party. She looks through me, affecting not to know me. Or perhaps she really doesn't know who I am, because I was never on her radar in the first place. And yet, if I had four or five kids of my own, I can't imagine what she and I would talk about. ...read more blogs