filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
It has been a pretty wild year, hasn’t it? I am certainly hoping that 2019 shows some big improvements.
But, before we close out this year, here is your last opportunity to rant this year. It’s an open forum (within reason), so feel free to get things off your chest so we can start fresh next year.
Happy whining!
My overarching message around the holidays has always been this:
Do what you need to do to protect yourself when your emotions are still raw. Back out of the holidays all together, if that’s what feels right. Create new traditions that suit who you are now. And most of all, hang in there, because it does get easier, and eventually you’ll find a way to make the holidays joyful again.
But, this year, I want to make an amendment. Because, the truth is, for some of you, the holidays might keep sucking for a long, long time, and my being all Pollyanna about it, isn’t going to change that.
For years, I have followed my own guidelines for holiday survival. After a couple of years of trying to force the Christmas spirit, we chose to opt out of Christmas because it was too sad. Then, for a number of years, we made a point of going away and doing something totally non-traditional. It wasn’t “Christmas” as I’d envisioned it, but it felt right for us, and we enjoyed the season again.
I thought I had a different attitude about Christmas. Mr. Fab and I like staying at home, just the two of us, and keeping it low key. We put up a tree and decorated the house. We’ll keep up our new tradition of celebrating on Christmas Eve and it will be a “nice” Christmas, not perfect, but good enough.
I’ve talked to several friends, fellow bloggers who, like me, are several years into being at peace with not having children. They each talked about plans for a quiet celebration, of an adapted holiday experience. And each of them also added that some part of their plans had triggered the old sadness or poked at a tender spot. Not one of us gushed about the jingly joyful celebration we were planning. Instead, we talk of an “almost-but-not-quite” Christmas.
As I was rooting around in my mind, trying to find a point to this post, I suddenly thought about my dad. My dad hated Valentine’s Day, not because of the commercial tackiness, but because his own father had died on February 14th. Even two decades later, he couldn’t find joy in the day, and none of us expected him to. I tiptoed around him and, by February 15th, he was his old self again. As a young girl, hoping to get Valentines in the mail, I couldn’t understand why my dad felt this way. But, of course, I understand it fully now.
I stand by all my guidelines about the holidays: It does get easier. You will find a way to get through the holidays and even enjoy them again. But, odds are, they will always tap a sore spot and serve as a reminder of what’s missing. It might always be “almost-but-not-quite” Christmas.
But, before you know it, it will be January again, a new year and a fresh chance to live the life you do have to its fullest. I don’t know about you, but the New Year is fast becoming my favorite holiday of all.
Through the years of being part of our Life Without Baby community, I really thought I’d heard every possible horror story. But recently a friend told me about her nightmare experience at a baby shower, and I am aghast. At that gathering, the hostess introduced a new game: A bag is passed around the room, and each guest pulls out a pregnancy test. (I could not make this up.) When everyone has one, they all look, and the woman holding a positive test announces to the room “I’M PREGNANT!” and wins a prize.
Apparently it’s the hot new trend at baby showers.
It got even worse for my friend. When the bag came to her, she tried to let it pass, but the woman sitting next to her insisted she play. “I’ve taken plenty of pregnancy tests, and they’ve all been negative,” my friend said quietly. “I don’t need to go through this again.” At which point her neighbor took this as an invitation to loudly out my friend as a childless woman and offer advice: “You should try IVF! A friend of a friend had a miracle baby in her late 40s! You could always adopt!”
My friend, who is a much stronger person than I am, managed to laugh it off. Weeks after hearing her tale, my blood is still boiling. I put myself in her shoes and wondered how I would have reacted in that situation. Part of me hopes I would have turned to the intrusive and insensitive stranger and said something like, “F— you and the horse you rode in on,” which would have been inappropriate and rude, but might have made me feel better in the moment.
But the reality is I probably would have just sat there and taken the abuse, while shutting a part of myself down in an attempt to get through the party without dissolving into a sobbing puddle and amplifying an already grotesque public humiliation. Sigh.
Next time—because there will be ladies luncheons, holiday parties, family get-togethers, and other events that will turn sour—what I really hope I will do is stand up and walk out. Period.
And it got me thinking that I could give myself permission to save myself. (This goes for you, too.) I don’t owe anyone any excuses. I don’t even need to say, “Excuse me” as I get up. I suppose I could say, “Where’s the restroom?” to make a graceful exit, but as soon as I am out of range, I could head straight out the door and to my car (and have my meltdown in private).
Would this cause a scene? Perhaps. Would it cause people to talk? Possibly, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe my walking out and calling attention to how horribly hurtful something is would get people to think and have some compassion. And at the very least, I might hang on to a shred of my dignity, and that’s worth a lot.
I hope you’ll keep this in mind the next time you’re caught off guard by someone else’s poor choices. I hope you’ll remember that I have given you permission to take care of and stand up for yourself.
We don’t have to take abuse from anyone.
An acquaintance made a point recently of sharing with me how wonderful her grown son is. “Every holiday,” she said, “he calls to make sure I’m not spending it alone.”
It took me a while to process why I was still stewing over this several days later. For openers, it brought up the wounds of being childless forever, of knowing there will be no grown children or grandchildren to check in on me in my later years, to include me in holiday gatherings. It also bugged me that she was choosing to share this with me, someone she knows has been through the wringer with the whole trying-to-make-peace-with-being-childless journey (i.e., know your audience, lady).
But then it struck me: This woman has been married for decades, has several extended family members nearby, is part of a close community of friends, and she really has no experience of the depths of loneliness I’ve experienced as a long-time single woman and now childless woman. She has never spent a holiday alone—not one—and she never will.
Yet…yet…she still feels lonely.
Loneliness isn’t the domain of single people. You can feel alone in a marriage or in a room full of strangers. You can feel alone when you’re surrounded by gobs of other people who have no idea about your life experience or who don’t make any effort to care. Anyone been at a ladies’ lunch that turned into a mommies’ lunch? Yup, me too.
I think it is very sweet her son is reaching out and trying to help her feel less alone, but I think she would be in better shape if she made the effort to reach out herself. I’ve done this in my own life. When I’ve felt especially sad (and I can throw a world-class self-pity party), I’ve thought about who in my life is in worse shape and I’ve picked up the phone and called. Or sent a text message or email or postcard or handwritten note. Sometimes all I say is “Thinking of you”, and sometimes that’s the extent of the exchange. But other times that friend answers the call and says, “Your timing is perfect. I needed to hear a friendly voice today,” and by the end of the conversation, we’re both lifted up a bit.
I know how hard this journey is, and I know how triggering the holidays are. If you’re in a dark place, take the time you need to grieve and please be gentle with yourself. But, if you feel like you have even an ounce to give, pick up the phone. Tell someone else you’re thinking about them, and maybe they’ll tell you they’ve been thinking about you too. It might be just the message you need to hear to get you through today.
By Kathleen Guthrie Woods
A couple of years ago, just after enduring a quiet (i.e., “lonely”) Thanksgiving and facing yet another child-less Christmas, I was on the verge of an epic meltdown. I’d given up vacation days to help a client meet a tight deadline, I was too tired and busy to participate in traditional rituals like window shopping and checking out neighbors’ decorations, there would be no feast to bring scattered family together, there were no children to remind me of the magic of the season…waaaaaaaa!
My husband held me as I whined and cried, and as he dried my tears he said, “Why don’t you go read your book?”
“Because…sniff, sniff…I finished the last good book I had and the one I requested from the library isn’t in yet and….”
“No, no,” he said, in his kindest and most patient voice, “your book, the one you wrote, about how to get through the holidays.”
Oh. Right. Why didn’t I think of that?
He was referring to Life Without Baby Holiday Companion, a collection of classic blog posts Lisa and I put together from this site that offer inspiration and encouragement for getting through the season. It was created in response to what we heard so often from readers: that holiday festivities can bring up all sorts of painful emotions when you’re childfree-not-by-choice.
In times of crisis, it’s so easy to forget what is right in front of us, so I would like to take this opportunity to remind myself—as well as you—what we have here on LWB:
If you’re hurting—when you’re hurting—I hope you’ll look to LWB for comfort. Reach out to other LWBers and share what you’re feeling. Allow us to walk alongside you, to offer understanding in our unique yet similar experiences, and to remind you that you are not alone.
Following my husband’s compassionate advice, I did just that. I brewed myself a pot of tea, placed a few sugar cookies on a pretty plate, and sat down with “my book” to heal myself. I won’t say I made it to “Merry!” that day, but I did start to feel better.
This year, instead of giving into the lure of another meltdown, I’m going to be proactive by re-reading the book and spending some time on our site. I trust I will find ideas for getting through the coming weeks with some grace, compassion, and a healthy dose of perspective. I might even find my way back to seeing the magic and joy that can still be mine this season.
Wishing you happier holidays,
Kathleen
Life Without Baby Holiday Companion is available in an ebook format on Amazon. If it feels like you’re heading for a blue Hanukkah/Christmas/Kwanzaa, I hope you’ll order a copy and find some of the peace you long for.
Even the most festive among us has to hit holiday burnout at some point. And if you’re trying drum up your holiday spirit and keep coming up empty, you may have hit this point sometime around Halloween.
So this week’s Whiny Wednesday topic is simply:
The Holidays Without Children
Feel free to unleash your inner Grinch…or not.
My friend was recently sideswiped by sadness. Like me, she’s been off the “baby train” for several years and has truly come to terms with the fact that she won’t have children.
Then she had a birthday and found herself totally sideswiped, caught off-guard by her grief, and in the kitchen having a meltdown.
What happened?
She’s not sure and neither was I. Maybe her birthday signified moving one step closer to menopause and the final loss of the possibility of motherhood. Maybe spending time with a friend’s son reminded her of the missing part of her life. Maybe she was feeling alone in her family-oriented community.
The point is that sometimes, even when we’re sure we have it together, even when we’ve done the grief work, even when we’ve cried an ocean and think there’s nothing left to resolve, sometimes we just get sideswiped.
Has this happened to you? What unexpected trigger has caught you off-guard?
As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods
Angela found Life Without Baby when she was researching “living childfree” online. After incredibly painful losses, she is moving forward in her journey toward acceptance, with some rough days along the way. Like those days when you’re caught in awkward situations, when some stranger asks if you have children, and you find yourself falling into an unexpected abyss of grief and loneliness. “I feel like a leper,” Angela wrote to me, “and that should not be the case.”
That’s why I feel these stories, our stories, are so important. We are here to remind each other “You are not alone.”
I hope for better days for Angela and all of us, days when we are heard, accepted, embraced, and appreciated for simply being ourselves.
I hope, after reading her story, you’ll reach out to Angela through the Comments to offer your support and encouragement.
Wishing you better days. — Kathleen
LWB: Briefly describe your dream of motherhood.
Angela: I always thought I’d get married before I was 30, have three amazing children, and move to a beautiful house in the countryside.
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?
Angela: I hadn’t been able to conceive naturally, so my partner and I decided to try IVF. It worked the first time. I was elated and couldn’t believe that at last I was going to be a mother. Sadly, it turned out to be an ectopic pregnancy. I was devastated, but managed to pick myself up to do a couple more egg collections before doing a transfer. Again, I was pregnant, and this time it wasn’t ectopic, but sadly, I had a miscarriage. This was followed by an emergency D&C, then another D&C two months later to remove the remaining tissue. Due to the biopsy results of the removed tissue, I needed to see a gynecologic oncologist who performed a colposcopy and found that I had carcinoma in situ of the cervix and had to have a cold knife cone biopsy. It was only after this sorry saga was over that I able to grieve for the loss of my baby whilst simultaneously coming to terms how fortuitous it was that I had had a D&C when I did.
I did step back onto the IVF train four more times, but all four failed. My partner had moved on long before me, and I often felt like I couldn’t talk about my feelings to him without being told to move on, get counseling, therapy, anything.
Nevertheless, I finally decided that enough was enough after depleting much of our savings, being emotionally broken to the point where I couldn’t fall anymore, and making a promise to myself that I was going to live the rest of my life happy and strong, no matter what.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Angela: I have now come to accept that my family of two makes me happy in so many ways. We are more appreciative of each other and what we have. I have even begun to embrace life again and accept that this is the life I was given, even if it wasn’t the one I would have chosen. It took me a very, very long time to get here, and although I still feel pangs of sadness—which I don’t think will ever go away—they don’t sting like they used to.
LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?
Angela: Not being able to experience loving, nurturing, and educating my own children from birth and beyond. The joy of being pregnant, the miracle of giving birth, and experiencing the ups and downs of being a parent and potential grandparent.
LWB: What’s the best part about not having children?
Angela: Being able to do what I want, when I want, and not ever having to burden myself with the financial stress that I see so many parents experience.
LWB: What have you learned about yourself?
Angela: I am stronger and more emotionally resilient than I ever imagined.
LWB: What is the best advice you’d offer someone else like you?
Angela: Life is tough. There will be dark days, maybe even months, and when you hit rock bottom, you will find the strength to fight back up to the top. It’ll take time, patience, a lot of reflection, and big doses of hard work, but don’t give up, because you have so much to look forward to. Life is waiting for you to embrace it and make it what you will, no matter what. Live authentically, compassionately, and learn to help others when they cannot help themselves.
LWB: What do you look forward to now?
Angela: A life with abundance: travel, getting my masters degree, starting a new career, making new friends, and simply living happy again without being on a rollercoaster of drugs, appointments, and emotional highs and lows that consume my every thought.
This topic came up on the community forums a while ago and I thought it was a great topic to explore here on Whiny Wednesday.
Not being treated like a “real” adult because you’re not a parent.
I’ve certainly experienced this myself and talked to friends who say they’re still treated like a kid because they don’t have children of their own.
How about you?
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