I don’t often talk about my sexuality, but I find I can’t avoid it when talking about being a single parent. I’m asexual. I had a child without a partner, and I will probably never have a partner. I’m fine with that. My asexuality is barely a part of my daily life. And yet, I think about it often since becoming a parent.
People ask if I’m dating. They ask if I’ve dated or will date. I’m sure some of them wonder whether David will ever have two parents. The answers are no, somewhat, and probably not. I waited to have a child because I thought I had to. That’s what you do. You meet someone, and you have a baby with them. Years later, I realized how flawed this perspective was.
I wanted a child more than anything. My parents will tell you about my childhood filled with taking care of my toys and declaring that I would have anywhere between four and ten kids. Parenting is my identity. Some people can be happy without kids, but I could never be. As to having a relationship? Meh. The thought of sharing space and time with another person, my kids exempt, makes me tense up. Like some people never want kids, I never wanted or needed a partner, and I think we can all agree that getting involved with someone for the sole purpose of having a child is a horrible idea for all involved.
When I am in my single parent groups, a frequent topic of conversation is how to date while parenting alone. When this comes up, I feel awkward and alone. It’s alienating, like when all your friends have an in-joke that you don’t get, and you don’t think you’ll find it funny anyway, but it would be nice to be a part of it. You start to wonder if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t even fit in this space that you’re supposed to.
I worry about my child, too. Will he feel the effects of only having one parent, the constant pull and divided attention? Will he resent my choices? Every time he laughs with me, I feel reassured; every time he cries while I'm in the bathroom or making his bottle, I wonder again.
I'm not ashamed of being asexual, nor do I regret having my child. But sometimes, they add up to more than the sum of their parts. I look for a community to talk about this, and I don't find much. I've met some asexuals who have been married and have children, but none who have chosen to be a single parent. Likewise, I know many single parents, but they are all, to some degree, looking for a partner. I don't fit either of these categories. In the wider world, there is still stigma on single parents, so every time I face that—and acknowledge that I will probably face it my entire life—it adds to my uncertainty.
But above all, I am a good parent. And maybe my child will be asexual. At the very least, he will know that sex isn't everything, and that he can be his own person and be happy. And I know that, too. I chose not to marry someone just for the convenience of raising a child. I did not potentially traumatize myself by having sex with someone when I didn't want to. There is value in that, and it gives my asexuality power.
Being an asexual single parent is different, and it has its challenges. But I could never have made any other choice, because to make another choice would have been taking a piece of my identity away. I don't speak about my asexuality often because I don't think it's anyone's business, but I do try to talk about it often in the framework of parenting because I want others to understand, and I want them to see this power and value in asexuality. I want them to stop asking me when I'll get married, to stop assuming I'm looking, and to see parenthood and sex a little differently.
My asexuality makes me the best me, and that makes me the best parent, and so I am proud of it.
Ryden Allen is an asexual, autistic, nonbinary human being. He is the author of the young adult novel Expectations (available on Amazon) and the upcoming picture book My Daddy's Not Like Other Daddies, and is working on more.