filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
A TIME magazine cover story awhile ago, “The Childfree Life,” came with an image of an attractive (and color-coordinated) couple lounging on a tropical, white sand beach, seemingly without a care in the world, resplendent in their designer sunglasses. That image prompted this week’s Whiny Wednesday topic:
The assumption that if you don’t have kids you have money to burn
Whine away, my friends.
A nearby friend recently posted something on Facebook , a personal ad of sorts, which included…
Seeking friends to:
Reading it at my desk, I wanted to raise my hand and shout, “ME! Pick me!” Except for one small problem: She’d labeled her request:
Seeking Mom Friends
I would love to do all of the activities on her list with her, and the great irony of being excluded from her search is that I—unlike her friends who are moms, who she complained were bailing on her because they are too busy with their kids—I have the time and energy to do them with her.
For about a minute I thought about replying anyway and suggesting that maybe a renewed friendship with me was worth nurturing. But then I read further down the list about how she also wants to talk about mom stuff with these friends.
You know what, she’s on her own.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childless status.
By Lisa Manterfield
I have a large scar on my left knee. It has black lines of grit in it, and smooth patches of scar tissue that catch the light on an otherwise rough patch of skin.
My scar is 30 years old and I don’t think about it very often anymore. It doesn’t hurt, even when I poke it, and the wound that caused it healed long ago.
But if I think back to the day I got my scar, all the memories and the pain come flooding back. I remember the bike accident. I remember riding through the trees on a gorgeous sunny day, laughing with my friends and flirting with a boy I liked. I remember trying to get his attention and catching my front wheel on his back tire. I don’t recall sailing through the air, but I must have done, because I do remember skidding along the trail, trading bits of knee for bits of trail.
I remember sitting in the bath at home and crying as my mum tried to clean the wound. And I remember my older brother—a bit of an expert on injuries and scars—gently coaxing me to scrub out the grit or be left with a terrible scar.
I also have a vague recollection of a discussion among adults (not my parents) about plastic surgery and what a shame it would be if a “pretty girl” was disfigured by an ugly scar.
It all happened so long ago, but dredging up these memories can bring back all that pain, my embarrassment, the tenderness of my brother, the feeling that my scar would make me “less than” I could have been. I can feel all of it again as if it had happened in more recent memory.
I feel this way about my infertility and childlessness, too. Most days, I don’t think about it anymore. But lately I’ve been writing about grief and loss, and some of those awful feelings of sadness, anger, and deep, deep loss have been coming back to me.
It’s taught me that the healing process for emotional scars is much the same as for physical scars.
You have to suffer some terrible pain to clean the wound. You have to struggle through the initial all-consuming grief. You have to ask for support from people who might not know how to give it. You have to walk again, even if every step is agony. You’ll meet people who will see you as damaged and less than you could have been, because you no longer fit into their ideal of perfect.
But over time the healing begins. You’ll knock your healing wound a few times and break it open again. In one particularly unfortunate incident, you’ll fall on the same wound and end up with a double scar. But you’ll remember how much you loved riding a bike and you’ll take it up again. And you’ll meet new people, who don’t care whether you have one ugly knee, because they’re more interested in some other facet of who you are. And you’ll realize that being a “pretty girl” wasn’t what you were destined to be anyway, and you’re happy being an outdoorsy girl who’s accumulated a multitude of scars since then.
And when you’re shaving your legs (which is trickier because of the scar) you might sometimes recall how you got the scar and the pain you went through. But most days, you won’t even think about.
Having a big scar on my knee means I never got the opportunity to be a leg model, but I got to be so many other things instead, things that have made my life journey quite interesting. My infertility scar is much newer than my knee scar, but I can already see it healing in a way I couldn’t have imagined when it was new and raw. I am starting to wonder about what new destiny it’s leading me to.
For more about hiding and revealing our scars, check out this guest post from Quasi-Momma.
Last fall, my husband and I spent our hard-earned vacation time at a couple of popular amusement parks, taking in shows, attractions, foods and beverages not on our usual healthy meal plans, and rides. Due to an old injury (I’m fine), I couldn’t go on any of the tossing and twisting, dropping and diving, violently fun thrill rides, and I was okay with that. I enjoyed people-watching and reading a good book while my husband took advantage of my pass to experience all those rides twice then come back and give me a play-by-play.
After one such ride, he all but sprinted back to me. “I’ve found a ride for you!”
As he led me across the park to the place he had spotted, he gushed, “It looks perfect for you! It’s like riding a giant swing. It sways slowly as you ride over the park and take in all the amazing views, and I know you are going to love it!”
My anticipation and excitement grew as we waited patiently in the long line alongside families with young children. And then it all came to a screeching, sickening halt. For at the boarding site there was a huge sign that proclaimed:
I’m sorry: What?!
“I HATE this fudging place!” (Um, okay, I didn’t say fudging. It was not my finest moment.)
My husband trailed behind me as I stomped off. “Maybe you could borrow a kid?” he suggested, his own disappointment on my behalf evident in his tone. I gave him a glare that could melt a glacier, and I swear some of those parents in line pulled their children closer.
Even as I write this, months after it happened, my blood continues to boil. Why wasn’t I allowed on this ride? Why couldn’t I have had just a few minutes of childlike glee? Why must so many fun things be the exclusive right of kids and their parents? Why me?!?
I don’t have answers—or I don’t have answers that fully satisfy me. I am certain that the slights we childless women endure are not all intentional, while I am also certain that they feel like they come in wave after crashing wave.
I want to give you a happy or encouraging ending, or some wise insight, but I don’t have it in me. I still had a good vacation. I enjoyed the playtime with my husband, I enjoyed many of the other experiences the parks had to offer. But the slight still hurts, and it makes me want to hit someone, specifically the doofus who came up with the “must be accompanied by a child” rule.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is occasionally not at all at peace with her childlessness.
As I settle into the New Year, I’m thinking about my upcoming (and some overdue) health check-ups—teeth, eyes, and, of course, the annual visit to my OB/GYN. The latter prompted this week’s Whiny Wednesday topic:
OB/GYN office walls plastered with baby photos
Given that this is so often the first of many stops on the fertility trail, and given that so many of us don’t have children, but wanted them, doesn’t this seem a tad insensitive?
It’s Whiny Wednesday. What’s under your skin this week?
My family serves the same breakfast every Christmas morning: a sausage and cheese casserole (also fondly referred to as “heart attack on a plate”), grapefruit cut in half with each segment carefully carved out with that cool little bent grapefruit knife, and Gram’s Coffee Cake. It isn’t Christmas without Gram’s Coffee Cake. You can hang lights and stockings, place treasured ornaments on a tree, and crank up the volume to sing along with Bing Crosby and friends, but it isn’t until that sweet and cinnamony batter is in the oven that home smells and feels like Christmas.
On this past Christmas Eve, as photos rolled into my phone from various households showing off their cakes fresh from the oven or wrapped in foil to keep for the morning, I chimed in to the stream of text messages with, “This is the first year in my life I didn’t make one.”
“There’s still time!” one relative chimed in.
“It’s no fun when there’s no one to make it for,” I tried to explain, wondering if I should elaborate on how for years I’ve baked the whole big thing, eaten one slice myself, then given the rest as hostess gifts or to my husband’s office staff.
“So make it for yourself!” another relative suggested.
And oh, how I wanted to respond with, “You’re not childless-not-by-choice! You wouldn’t understand!”
Sound familiar? How many times have we been smacked in the face with “You’re not a parent—you wouldn’t understand.” Once, just once, I wish my family members could try to understand how difficult the holiday season has been and continues to be for me. How spirit-draining it is to even imagine going through the effort to drag out the ladder, hammer the nails, and untangle the string of lights, without some wee darling there to be thrilled by the twinkling beauty. Or the futility of putting out milk ’n’ cookies and a note for Santa without a little believer in the house. Or…I know. I could go on ad nauseam, and this is hardly news to you.
I shared the above exchange with a friend who is also childless-not-by-choice, knowing she would commiserate. “Should I try to explain how I feel?” I asked. “Should I talk to them so they understand how—I know, unintentionally—painful their unhelpful comments are?”
She responded with the very best advice for this scenario: “Let it go.”
“But, but….”
“Just let it go.”
She’s right. They can’t ever fully understand because they are parents, because they do get to share all our wonderful family holiday traditions with new generations, and they will never understand why something as “small” as making Gram’s Coffee Cake is so emotionally charged for me.
However, as I reflected upon this in the days that followed, I reminded myself that I do have people in my life who understand. Right here, at Life Without Baby. If I need sympathy, support, or just a place the vent, I can come to this safe space and feel welcomed on “Whiny Wednesday”, in comments on blog posts, discussions in Forums, or by reading and relating to your stories in the “Our Stories”* column.
As we move into this new year, whenever we feel alone or lost or generally misunderstood, let’s remember to check in with each other here. Because even if we can’t find seem to find it anywhere else, here we are understood.
*We make it really easy for you to share your story. Go to this link and answer the questions in your own words. No writing experience needed. I hear again and again what a healing experience this is for the contributor, and I know I, as well as our many readers, will be there to support you.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childless status.
As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods
Grieving is not a rational act, although I sense many of us try to treat it as such. “If I act ‘as if’…if I will myself to…today will be different!” And then we get hit with a fresh wave of loss and feel as though all of our sanity is washed away.
Ann B.* understands this all to well. Even though she and her husband made very reasoned choices about why they are childfree, she continues to be knocked down by the weight of her lost dreams and to feel ashamed of her sadness.
I get that. I think you do too.
Ann’s hopes for the new year may sound a lot like yours. If you’ve been in her shoes, I hope you’ll share some of your journey with her in the Comments. If you’re in her shoes today, I hope Ann’s words remind you that you are not alone.
I want to wish you all a Happy New Year!, but that doesn’t feel quite right. Instead, my wish for you is that this new year comes with healing moments of gratitude, grace, and peace.
LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.
Ann: I always wanted to be a mother. I work in elementary school education. I am surrounded by children in my personal and professional life. Most of all, I wanted to hold to my husband’s child in my arms. It was not to be.
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?
Ann: Chance and choice. By chance: I have a medical condition, which, when well-controlled, does not interfere with my ability to live a full and happy life. By choice: I decided that the risk to my health (of pregnancy, which may exacerbate my condition), the risk to a fetus of birth defects (caused by medication I take for the condition), and the risk to my husband (of potentially caring for an unwell wife and a baby with special needs) was too great. We consulted many doctors and, ultimately, realized that having children was too risky.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Ann: I am in denial about the need to grieve the loss of motherhood. I feel ashamed of my sadness, which comes in waves. I don’t believe I deserve to grieve because this was my decision, and life does not owe me anything. I know that life is full of hard choices and varying circumstances. I choose to stay busy to keep the depth of sadness at bay.
LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?
Ann: It changes. I go through phases of mourning losses. For example, never experiencing pregnancy or childbirth, never naming a baby, never seeing my husband’s character strengths passed on, never feeling pride at a concert, and the lack of rituals/milestones that accompany children. Other times, I feel less significant, less loving, less generous, and less deserving than women who balance the demands of motherhood. I find myself apologizing and downplaying my life experiences in conversation with mothers.
LWB: What have you learned about yourself?
Ann: I’ve learned that feelings are illogical and can’t be controlled by planning, research, or intellectual reasoning. It’s possible to feel guilt and shame about something that I still believe was the right and responsible decision. I’ve learned that feelings of loss will keep resurfacing until I am brave enough to face them and feel them.
LWB: What’s one thing you want other people to know about your being childfree?
Ann: “I have the humanity, compassion, and time to be your village. I have skills, experience, and knowledge to support your parenting journey. Don’t underestimate my capacity to love or serve your family. Please trust me and let me lighten your load.”
LWB: How do you answer “Do you have kids?”
Ann: “No”. Sometimes, this is followed by an awkward beat of silence because I haven’t prepared a short, socially appropriate 10-word explanation. I don’t want to make others feel that they have caused offense. I know it is a form of small talk; it is a friendly, genuine inquiry. I want to honor their intentions and guide the conversation to a place that is comfortable for all. However, I’m not there yet. I feel pain every time I hear the question.
LWB: What is your hope for yourself this coming year?
Ann: I would like to face my grief and stop denying the pain. I would like to use the grieving process to move towards healing.
*We allow each contributor to choose another name, if she wishes, to protect her privacy.
What are your hopes for yourself in this coming new year? We can all benefit from hearing about your experiences, plus we’d like to support you. Please visit the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire, and consider sharing your story with women who truly understand what you’re going through.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a Northern California–based freelance writer. She is mostly at peace with her childfree status.
By Kathleen Guthrie Woods
“So…why are you going?”
My sweet friend, let’s call her Ashley, had just told me about how much she was dreading Christmas. She and her husband are traveling halfway across the country to be with extended family, a family of loud, funny, sarcastic, in-your-face, mostly well-intentioned people who she knows will be needling her about why they don’t have kids yet.
“I can hear your clock ticking!”
“Your cousin got pregnant on her honeymoon—and you two have been married how long?”
“I swear I’m going to croak before this one gives me a grandchild!”
What they don’t know is that Ashley had another miscarriage last month. So she is going to suffer through all the questions and smart-ass comments in silence, with a half-smile on her face and a crack that is growing deeper in her heart.
But she is going because family gatherings are fewer and farther between as busy lives take over. And the older generations aren’t getting any younger, so she feels like she’s on borrowed time with them. And her favorite aunt was widowed earlier this year, and Ashley doesn’t want her to feel alone over the holidays. All valid reasons, but oh how my heart aches for her as I anticipate and imagine what she’s facing this coming week.
I asked her to put me on speed dial, so that if things get really rough, she can step outside or lock herself in the bathroom and call me for emotional support. Even though she and her husband are still trying, still hopeful (and I’m hopeful for them too), I sent her some classic LWB posts about dealing with social landmines and getting through the holidays when you’re childless-not-by-choice. I hope I helped her, and I hope I can continue to help her get through this season with some dignity and grace.
After our chat, I started thinking more about how no one in her family knows what she’s been going through. I know better than to encourage anyone to break a silence on something so emotionally devastating as multiple miscarriages, especially in a large and rowdy gathering, but her sharing her confidences made me think about the fact that all of us are dealing with things that aren’t fit for announcing to the general public—or sometimes to our immediate and extended family members.
So, while I’ll be dealing quietly with my own hurts, as I gather with loved ones over the holidays, I’ll be approaching them with a new awareness. I might give slightly longer hugs, I might reach across a room with a smile, I might keep an eye out for someone who is left out of the conversation or looks a little more isolated than usual. Whether or not they choose to give me their confidence, I can give them something: the gift of kindness, the gift of compassion. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get that gift in return.
By Lisa Manterfield
“Are you the adult you dreamed of becoming?”
I laughed when I read this question on Facebook. No! Of course I’m not. The adult I dreamed of was an international engineering consultant, living in a large house with a circular driveway, with a fabulous husband and four beautiful children, including one set of twins.
Aside from the fabulous husband, that adult is almost the polar opposite of the adult I am now. I’m a writer, who works from my very small rented beach cottage, and of course, there are no children in my picture. And yet, once I stop to consider my friend’s question, I realize that I’m a lot happier as this adult than I would have been had my expectations been met. I’ve met the person I’d once dreamed of becoming; she wasn’t a very happy person and she definitely had more grey hairs than me.
Half the battle of coming-to-terms with a life without children is letting go of our expectations—and creating new ones. This is never more true than during the holiday season, one of the most difficult times of the year to be childless.
When I think of my expectations of what Christmas should be like as an adult, those four children are always there, gathered around the tree, gathered around the dinner table, and then gathered around me as the day comes to a close. Even when I realized that children wouldn’t be part of my life, I still strived to make Christmas live up to my expectations. Consequently, Christmastime was very sad time for a number of years. I knew there was no way my expectations could be met, and eventually I stopped making an effort to celebrate.
The worst year was when my husband and I found ourselves sitting at home, with no Christmas tree, no plans, no celebration, and we knew we’d allowed our lack of children to take over our lives. We also realized it was time to set new, more realistic expectations.
When I took a step back and looked at what I really wanted for Christmas, not on the surface of gifts, family, and decorations, but on a deeper emotional level, I discovered that my spiritual wish list included love, peacefulness, companionship, and a good dose of silly fun. I needed to explore new ways to get what I really wanted.
It took a couple of false starts to find a new way to celebrate Christmas, but a couple of years ago we nailed it. Mr. Fab and I rented an apartment for three days in a nearby beach town. We celebrated on Christmas Eve with a lovely dinner at an historic hotel with an enormous Christmas tree, roving carolers, and even an outdoor ice rink (in Southern California!). On Christmas Day, instead of sitting at home feeling sad about a pathetic Christmas for two, we went to the zoo, like a couple of big kids, and had a whale of a time. I even got to feed a rhino and have an ice cream. We both agreed it was the best Christmas we’ve had for a long time, plus there were no tantrums or mountains of dirty dishes to deal with.
It’s hard to let go of our expectations, especially when they’re often so deeply engrained, but if you’re struggling to find your holiday cheer this year, I encourage you to look beneath the obvious losses and examine what’s really missing for you. Even if you can’t meet your tangible expectations of what the holidays should be, you might be surprised to find you can satisfy your true needs in unconventional—and unexpected—ways.
As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods
I can always use a little bit of outside light as we head into the holidays and what for many of us who are childless-not-by-choice is a cold and dark season of the soul. Brandi gave me that light of hope when she shared her story with me. Forty years old and happily married for 16, Brandi endured over 10 years of the infertility nightmare. When her husband told her he couldn’t do it any more, she made the choice to build a new Plan B life with him, one that was childless.
After “a long climb out of the pit of despair”, she is able to state (and here’s where she knocks my socks off): “I have accepted that I am a childless woman, but I do not identify as childfree.” Since her decision, she has filled her life with children, other people’s children, and has found what she calls the “bright side of infertility”.
Read her story below, then learn more about Brandi and her journey at her own website and blog, Not So Mommy.
LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.
Brandi: I always thought I’d be just a good ol’ fashioned mom, with two kids, a husband, a dog, and a cat, living in my traditional house. Even as a little girl, I toted my Cabbage Patch Kid around in a carrier on my chest. I didn’t dream of my wedding day, but I did dream about having a husband and kids.
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?
Brandi: I am childless by chance. (Actually, I usually say I am childless-not-by-choice.) My husband and I suffer from severe infertility. I have endometriosis, and after seven failed IUIs [intrauterine insemination fertility treatments] and 10 years TTC [trying to conceive], my husband decided he didn’t want to keep trying. So, at the end of 2013, I began trying to accept my childless life.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Brandi: I have accepted that I am a childless woman, but I do not identify as “childfree”. I have kids in my life (nieces, nephews, and an exchange daughter who has become family, plus our fur baby).
I started writing a blog, Not So Mommy, because I want to help others who are struggling in their childless journeys. I try very hard to focus on the good, so I write about the positive side of being infertile, childless, a dog mom, an aunt, a host mom, a wife, etc., and redefine what “momhood” means to me. When I was in the pit of despair and at my darkest moments, I never thought that I would come out of my infertility journey able to say that I am okay with being childless. But my life has turned out pretty well! I want others to know that there is hope, there is a light at the end of the struggle. I hope to continue to inspire others to embrace their authentic selves and live their imperfectly perfect lives.
LWB: What was the turning point for you?
Brandi: December 26, 2013. That was the day my husband told me he didn’t want to keep trying to have a baby, and he didn’t want to adopt either. He said he just wanted to enjoy our life like it was. Because I love my husband and could not imagine my life without him, I decided that I had to accept our childless life. So, I went into 2014 with the resolution to do just that. It was not an easy road, and I definitely had struggles (sometimes still do), but it was freeing to let go of one dream (having a baby) so that I could open myself up to other possibilities.
LWB: What’s the best part about not having children?
Brandi: The freedom to travel, the freedom to have spur-of-the-moment dates with my husband, the freedom to spoil our nieces and nephews because we don’t have to pay for college or braces or everyday expenses.
LWB: How do you answer “Do you have kids?”
Brandi: I’ve always been honest about my infertility. I never hid it even when we were going through our struggle and treatments, so, when people ask, I tell them that we can’t have children. I go on to explain that we have nieces, nephews, a fur baby, and have hosted an exchange student who has become family. We usually end up talking about dogs or they ask about our hosting experience. I hope it allows people to realize there are different ways to have children besides getting pregnant or adopting.
LWB: What is the best advice you’d offer someone else like you?
Brandi: Allow yourself to be open to a different dream. My husband and I never considered hosting a foreign exchange student until we met a student and her host mom at a cooking class. Deciding to host a student turned out to be the BEST thing that ever happened in our life! God answered our prayers, but His answer looked different than we expected.
Won’t you share your story with us? The act of answering the questions itself can be very healing, plus we’d like to support you by telling you “You are not alone.” Please visit the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childlessness.
~ "a raw, transparent account of the gut-wrenching journey of infertility."
~ "a welcome sanity check for women left to wonder how society became so fixated on motherhood."
