I’ve always made it a point to avoid hospital obstetrics wards as if they were hot zones. Throughout my life, I’ve been about as interested in participating in what goes on there as I have catching the Ebola virus or exposing myself to nuclear fallout. I am glad there are women who want to be mothers, for motherhood and raising happy, healthy children surely are noble things, but I am equally glad – make that giddily skipping through life over it – that I am not among them. My biological clock simply never ticked, if, indeed, I was born with one at all.

I made an exception to my no-maternity-ward rule last weekend during too long a wait for Dalton David Dalbey Mowbray to make his appearance. As my brother’s middle daughter lay in a hospital bed for about 60 hours trying without success to have him the normal way, any doubts I might have had about remaining childless were extinguished.

Not that I had serious misgivings about my choice. It’s just that this is the time of my life, someone predicted years ago, that I am supposed regret not having children. “You’ll be sorry,” my friend said. “Your children will take care of you when you’re old.”

Well, there was that, I conceded, giving the matter of motherhood some thought. For about half a second. Babies are wonderful little miracles and they can steal hours of adults’ time just by smiling, even if the sweet expression is the result of passing gas. I’ve always suspected that they know they’re getting us to make big dumb doofuses of ourselves and seriously wish the camera-happy adults who are always hovering nearby would get our silliness on film instead of their every move. We don’t, so they spit up on us – or worse – in retaliation.

I’m not exactly ready for the old-folks home, so my friend’s predicted regret hasn’t settled in. Besides, I hear the homes for Baby Boomers will accommodate our appetite for adventure, so I don’t want to be saddled by a bunch of kids telling me I’m too old for rock ‘n’ roll and other fun stuff.

In high school, we were tricked into buying memory books along with graduation announcements, calling cards, class rings and other memorabilia long forgotten in a trunk in the basement. It was 1972, and though women had already burned their bras and their battle for equal rights was being waged in the streets, it took years for national trends to make it to tiny Burlington Junction, Mo., hardly the epicenter of enlightenment. Women there were expected to get married, have babies and cook a nice supper. So I dutifully wrote in the “where I’ll be in 10 years” section that I would be the happy mother of four by then.

It wasn’t an outright lie. It was what I was expected to want and it hadn’t yet occurred to me that I didn’t. When I did realize it, I spent most of my childbearing years getting other people to accept my joy of childlessness and not regard it as some kind of genetic flaw. Finally, I just explained that I was far too selfish to be a parent and let people conclude what they would from that limited information.

I love babies. Make that other people’s babies. My family’s world shines a little brighter with Dalton David in it, and I’ll be among the people acting like imbeciles when he smiles. His parents love him, want him and are willing to make the sacrifices to put his needs above theirs.

I wonder, though. Is that selfishness or selflessness?

Beth Dalbey can be reached by e-mail at bethdalbey@bpcdm.com.