In a soft, Mexican accent and in cautious English, my garbage man asked me, “You have baby?”

It was Wednesday, garbage day, and I was enjoying my lunch at the small, two-person table we have at the back of the house, just outside my studio. I have an interesting relationship with my garbage man, if you can call a once-a-week, gone-in-under-60-seconds encounter a “relationship.” Since I quit my job three years ago, I’ve watched him come and go every Wednesday, the “beep, beep, beep” his truck makes as he backs into my driveway signaling his arrival. It’s then, when I hear that sound, that I go outside to make sure my deaf cat is not in the driveway, her back to the unyielding metal and unforgiving rubber heading her way. That’s why I know my garbage man. I’m usually outside every time he comes, scooping up my cat.

Our encounters are always pleasant—a wave of the hand, a greeting, a comment on the weather, a wave goodbye accompanied by a meaningful wish for a good day or week. Sometimes I’ll give him treats I’ve baked that day. Sometimes I’ll ask him how to say something in Spanish. One time, when he saw me taking a screwdriver to my license plate as I was putting on my tags, he asked if I needed help. So you can see why I like my garbage man. He’s three-dimensional in a way that most people aren’t as they go about doing their jobs.

When he asked me if I had a baby, I had to chuckle. I’m sure that’s what he’s used to seeing when there’s a young (or youngish, in my case) woman alone at home in the middle of the day. By all accounts, I fit the mold for a stay-at-home-mom. Even a Mexican immigrant can see that. For months after I quit my job, that was my greatest fear—people assuming I was not just a mother, but a stay-at-home-mom. I even thought about making t-shirts, bumper stickers, and buttons that read, “I am not a stay-at-home-mom. I’m not even a mom.”

So I’m aware of the stereotype. And I’m aware that there are thousands of women out there who fit that stereotype. But I’m not one of them. And I don’t think that makes me an anomaly, despite what Lori believes. The last time we were together, she said to me, “You’re unique. This situation that you’re in.”

This situation. Not having a traditional career but not raising a child. Choosing to pursue creative work and choosing to be childfree. This hardly makes me unique. In the minority maybe. I’ll even give her rare. But not unique. Not even special. Anyone—any man, woman, or child living in America today—can have the life I’m living right now. It’s no secret how I got here. I posses no special skills or education. I don’t have a crystal ball or magic key to some room holding all the answers. No one handed me a map of short cuts nor did I come from a family of connections or wealth. It was just hard work, calculated choices, strategic sacrifices, and persistent commitment. Like many women before me (Georgia O’Keefe, Virginia Woolf) and many women currently surrounding me (Christine Mason Miller, Ann Howley, my friends Heidi and Steph), we exist outside the stereotype of woman-as-mother because we can and because we want to. There are more of us out there than most realize—one in five women in America, in fact (twice as many than 30 years ago, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.)

So why do so many doubt the existence, or even significance, of childfree women living the life they want? Is it really that much easier to believe the stereotype than to not become it?

When I told my garbage man that my husband and I choose not to have children, that we didn’t want that kind of a life, I was surprised by his response. With an immediate nod of the head, the look on his face said it all. It was the look of a man who fully understood what raising a child was all about. There was no judgment. There was no questioning. There was no plea for further explanation. Just this: “I have a daughter. She is six and one half years old.” And with that, he tossed my single bag of garbage into the back of his truck, brushed off his gloved hands, waved goodbye, and drove away. He so easily accepted my story. Stereotype be damned.