filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
Thanks to those of you who suggested Whiny Wednesday topics. If there’s something we haven’t covered yet, feel free to drop me a line.
This week’s whiny topic is:
“This happened because I am not worthy of being a mother .”
I think this falls into the same category as “I must have done something to deserve this” and “God/the Universe/fate must have other plans for me.”
Have you had these thoughts? Did you believe them?
As always, other whines are welcome. It is Whiny Wednesday after all.
I love playgrounds. I love the smells of grass and sand, and that tangy scent from old metal swing chains and jungle gyms. When I take one of the many little humans in my life out for a play date, a nearby park is frequently our destination, and when I’m out on my own or with a dog, I love to sit and simply watch and listen to the sounds of joy and happiness.
Maybe that’s why I take the growing “No Adults Allowed” trend so personally.
As a childfree human, my presence near a playground is now suspect. I am no longer welcome, I am no longer allowed, and it hurts.
I understand the concerns, certainly in light of the horror stories that appear in the nightly news about child abuse and abductions. If I were a parent, I wouldn’t want to be worrying that a serial molester was shooting video of his future victims while I ignorantly let my babies twirl on the merry-go-round.
And yet…parks to me symbolize a little piece of freedom in our ever-stressed-out world. A place where we can run in circles till we fall down in dizzy giggles, or chase a butterfly or kite, or lie in the grass and look for shapes in the clouds. Parks are where we can escape all of our shoulds and should-haves and, for a briefly delicious period, let our minds wander and our imaginations expand.
As a child, I loved to create secret missions for myself that involved climbing trees, hiding behind benches, and talking into my watch as I, a super-hero spy, brought down the bad guys (Nancy Drew and Charlie’s Angels were my peers in my fantasy world). When I was a young-ish adult, I loved following my nephews down the slides and pushing my nieces in the swings as they squealed, “Higher, Aunt Kath, higher!” These days I’m content to sit on the sidelines, enjoying the cacophony of shouts and laughter as other children create their own adventures. For a few moments, I can soak up a bit of their free-spiritedness, and even allow myself to drift in a big girl fantasy in which one of those sweet voices belongs to a child of mine.
Alas, it’s no longer allowed.
Kathleen’s favorite places on earth include New York’s Central Park, Rome’s Borghese Gardens, South Pasadena’s Garfield Park, and Stow Lake in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.
With any kind of grief, there comes a point where those around you expect you to be over it. For many of us, that point comes just as the full impact of loss is hitting us and we are far from okay. So here’s this week’s topic:
The pressure to “get over” your loss
Have you felt that pressure from those around you?
It’s so easy to lose myself in my grief. It starts so small as I avoid the family-focused church events and the company family picnic. At cocktail parties, when the discussions turn to grandbabies or graduations, I slip away, pretending to be invisible as I cozy up to the food table. I politely decline invitations to showers, then weddings, then milestone birthday parties. I tell myself I’d rather spend a quiet weekend at home than hang out with family or friends who might inadvertently sprinkle salt onto my wounds.
While I strongly believe in the importance of taking myself to a quiet place to work through my grief over my losses, lately I’ve been more aware of how I’ve isolated myself. And I’m starting to feel that it’s no longer healthy.
Maybe it’s time I rejoin society.
Maybe you’re starting to think about it too.
Wow. Just writing that is a little scary, but also a little exciting.
“You have a lot of life left!” I tell myself. Years, maybe decades, if I’m lucky. There are things I want to do, adventures I want to experience. There are classes I want to take, and foods I want to taste. I also have a wellspring of love to give, and it’s starting to brim over.
I think maybe I can do this.
This week I’m going to think about who I might see and what I might do. I could call up that gal in book club who I think is funny and invite her to meet me for coffee. She should be “safe”, because we’re likely to spend the whole time talking about books we love. Or I could invite one of my work colleagues, who I know also doesn’t have kids, to join me for lunch out, to talk about work stuff. Or I could call an old friend I haven’t seen for a while and see if she wants to meet up for a movie (meaning we’d barely have to talk at all).
The point is I’d be getting myself up, dressed, and out the door. It will probably take some time for me to feel fully myself again, but I’m ready to try, to ease in, to take those first small steps.
Are you ready to break out of isolation? If so, take my hand, take a deep breath, and let’s do this.
It’s Whiny Wednesday and this is one that always makes me scratch my head:
“Having kids made me grow up.”
So, does this mean I’m not a grown-up? Because if so, I’d like to relinquish all these grown-up responsibilities I seem to have. How about you?
There’s one shelf in my office where I keep my most favorite books, the ones that touched my heart and sparked my imagination, the ones I’d saved because I knew I’d want to read them again some day.
In January I pulled them all out, thinking this would be a good year to revisit them. While I eagerly anticipated re-reading brilliant novels, genre-challenging classics, and inspiring biographies, there was one category that pinched an especially sensitive nerve: the beloved books from my childhood.
Charlotte’s Web, the Little House in the Prairie series, the adventures of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, all the Harry Potter books. I had saved those books, moved them from apartment to apartment, with the intention—and the hopes—of one day reading them to and with my own children. Alas….
Offers of some to nieces and nephews were declined, typically because they had already outgrown the stories. I had to think hard about what I was going to do with these treasures of mine.
Read them. Ah-hah. That’s what I chose to do. Read them to myself, for myself. And so I dug in.
At this point I still have the Mark Twain books in my to read stack, but all the others have been enjoyed, devoured, and—to my surprise—released. I discovered I needed to love them one last time before I could consider where they might go next.
A couple of those books have been gifted to the daughters of a friend (which made me so happy to do). Others will be donated to the library, where I trust they will thrill some young reader. None of them are going back on my shelf.
I just caught my breath. A year ago I could not have imagined saying that I had, without an emotional breakdown, let them go.
This got me thinking about the whole grieving process. Over the years of wrestling with my losses, I have come to believe that in order to fully let go and move on, I must first acknowledge my grief, then dance openly with it, then bless it and allow it to move out of my heart. Easy? Heck no. Necessary? I think so.
There are so many items we hold dear that represent what we wanted, and what we’ve lost. What is it for you? A family heirloom, hand-me-down baby clothes, the baseball glove/dance shoes/board games saved from your own childhood? Are you ready to open up your hope chest, pull out your treasures, and perhaps let them go? A perfectly fine answer is “No.” But when the time comes that you are ready, know that many of us here at Life Without Baby have been through the process, and we came out intact.
Good luck. And please be gentle with yourself.
I just returned from the mall where I shopped for graduation gifts for the children of friends. I don’t begrudge the money or even the feelings of obligation, but buying gifts for other people’s children still stirs up some tough emotions. So, it’s the topic of this week’s Whiny Wednesday:
Buying gifts for other people’s children
Whine away, ladies, and feel free to chime in with anything else that’s setting you off today.
As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods
Anita has known for about 10 years that she’ll not have children. Now 42, she hesitates to describe her dream of motherhood because it isn’t something she allows herself to think about. “To much scratching on this wound can cause it to bleed again,” she says.
But she’s well aware that there are triggers all around us that scratch and wound, and she addresses some of them in her answer to “What’s the hardest part for you about now having children?”
I certainly can relate to what she’s saying, and I sense you will too. After you’ve read her story, I hope you’ll reach out to her in the Comments.
LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.
Anita: I dreamed about nurturing and raising a child of my own, sharing her life, watching her grow.
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?
Anita: Circumstance. My husband had been previously married, and they had a son. Before we married we discussed the “having a baby” question, and we both wanted children. A few years into our marriage, my husband decided against having children.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Anita: Acceptance, and depressed. I am not really sure that one can ever really overcome this. I think this is, like the death of a parent, something you learn to live with.
LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?
Anita: In short, it feels as if being without a child has robbed me of interaction with other women. I am forever lurking on the fringes. I’m not a man, but not a “real” woman either. [Following are some of the situations she finds especially difficult.]
LWB: How do you answer “Do you have kids?”
Anita: “No.” Sure, I have a stepson, but he already has a mom. For a while I hoped that I could be his “other” mom, but it wasn’t to be.
LWB: What is the best part about not having children?
Anita: Listening to our neighbor’s child scream seemingly for hours every night, and feeling thankful that it is not our child.
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.
This week’s Whiny Wednesday topic is a tough one.
Baby names you never got to use
As always, you’re free to vent on your own topic, too.
I don’t recall exactly how it started, but years ago I devised a strategy for picking myself off the floor when Life really really knocks me down. Some people might call it practicing random acts of kindness or paying it forward. I call my version of delivering surprises that I hope will make people smile “Fairy Deeds.”
Fairy Deeds come in all sorts of creative guises, from sending packets of wildflower seeds to friends (when I was bemoaning the fact that I had no space for a pretty garden of my own) to dropping off scratcher lottery tickets (when I was worried about how the bills were going to get paid) to wrapping up (in colored paper and a satin bow) a big package of Oreo cookies for a friend who had shared with me that she, too, had dealt with difficult losses with a note that said, “To remind you of the sweet things in life.”
The key to all of them, for me, is that they must be done anonymously. There is something about the adrenaline rush that happens when you’re making deliveries under the cover of darkness and the silly feeling of holding a juicy secret as you overhear a recipient sharing trying to figure out who the fairy is that completely lifts me out of my own malaise.
I’m thinking about Fairy Deeds this week because one of the deeds that was the most fun for me was done on July 4th, our Independence Day in the United States. Our country’s birthday was always a family holiday, one that included the gathering of close friends and extended family, the serving of favorite foods (homemade peach ice cream), and many traditions. As far back as I can remember, I looked forward to one day hosting my own family-focused celebrations, and well, we all know how that worked out.
On that original 4th of July, I had to work late and missed all the picnics, barbecues, and fireworks watchings I might have otherwise attended. Feeling beyond lonely, and nursing an epic case of self-pity, I faced the choice of going home and wallowing or…choosing to do something different.
I stopped at the market on the way home from work and picked up six ginormous watermelons. At home, I thought of people I knew who were also going through tough times, and wrote each a short note of encouragement. After several hilarious attempts with various types of tape and string, I finally came up with a way to attach each note: staples. OMG, I was already laughing at myself, so my plan was working. I loaded up the back seat of my car and headed out just after midnight.
Picture this: Like a thief in the night, I “canvassed” each home, making sure the coast was clear. Then I parked out of the occupants’ visual range, lugged the watermelon out of the back, and waddled (you try running with a huge melon in your arms!) up to the front porch. Quietly, stealthily (I was totally holding my breath), I placed the watermelon at the door, then dashed back to my car and, with my heart pounding out of my chest, raced to the next delivery. It was awesome!
I heard some of those friends later share what they’d discovered the next morning, and it filled my heart to know that I’d succeeded in doing something that surprised and amused them. There was no question I had cheered myself up.
This week, if you’re feeling sad/lonely/stuck, I encourage you to give this a try. It doesn’t have to be a big or expensive gesture, it can be as simple as:
I wish you a magical week!
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a Northern California–based freelance writer. She is mostly at peace with her childfree status.
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