filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
When you’re deep in your grief—and even when you feel like you’re finally in a good place—there’s one place that continues to be a trigger:
The Baby Aisle
Has it caught you unprepared? Did the sight of binkies, diapers, onesies, and teething toys bring on an epic meltdown?
Here’s your chance to vent.
I’ve been reading through some posts from the early LWB days, and this came up as one of the most-read—and one that received a flood of comments. It continues to ring true, and it continues to make me laugh and think. I’m including it below for those of you who haven’t seen it yet, and for long-time LWBers who will get a kick out of revisiting it.
What’s most interesting to me about how it makes me feel today, in 2018, is that I now focus less on the “I’ll Nevers” (both the loss of experiences and the avoidance of the annoying acts listed below) and focus more on the “I Cans.” For example, last year one of my nieces earned a spot on her high school cross-country team. Because I don’t have sporting events with my own kids filling up my Saturdays, late in the fall I was able to travel quite a distance to watch her team win the league championship. Several weeks later, my husband and I drove nine hours round-trip to watch her and her teammates win the state championship.
It was beyond thrilling to be there, and my heart overflowed with pride for this young woman who had worked so hard to achieve her win and with gratitude that I was able to be there to see her achieve it. I think of this again and again as I attend basketball games, awards ceremonies, music recitals, theatrical debuts, graduations, first communions, and other special events for my nieces, nephews, and godchildren—things I can and do enjoy but would never get to if Fate had dealt me a different hand.
So today in the Comments, I hope you’ll have fun with your “I’ll Nevers” and I hope you’ll think about at least one “I Can” you are able to enjoy because you happen to be childfree.—KGW
• • •
Whenever I get tired of hearing myself whine about all the things I’ll never get to experience because I’m childfree—feeling a second heartbeat within my body and beaming with pride when someone says “She’s just like you”—I find I can put an end to my self-pity party by thinking about some of the annoying things I’ll never do. This includes:
1. I’ll never ruin another couple’s romantic dinner because I’ve let my toddler run amok in a nice restaurant.
2. I’ll never keep an entire airplane full of stressed-out businesspeople and weary travelers awake with my screaming infant, because if I can block out her cries, surely they can make an effort.
3. I’ll never insist that, because my child is actually the smartest/most talented/most gifted kid in the group, he should get special treatment.
4. I’ll never have to schedule a vacation to coincide with school holidays, so I won’t be part of the masses of humanity standing in line in front of you to get into the museum/amusement park/restroom stall.
5. I’ll never say the words, “How would you know? You’re not a mother.”
6. I’ll never offend a stranger by asking him to hold my child while I lift up my shirt, fumble with snaps, and flash my breasts before taking the kid back for a public feeding.
7. I’ll never saddle a colleague with extra work because I have kids.
8. I’ll never blow off a friend because I have kids.
9. I’ll never tell my husband to go take a cold shower because I’m worn out from taking care of his kids.
10. And I’ll never, ever con extended family into going on a Disney cruise.
What’s on your list?
We could easily compile an entire encyclopedia of unhelpful, and even hurtful, things people have said to us. I think this one stings as much as any:
“Everything Happens for a Reason”
Do you agree? Or do you have your own favorite “helpful” slight?
By Lisa Manterfield
I was asked once, by a well-intentioned person, if I thought I’d waited too long to start trying to have children. I have to admit that the thought has flitted across my mind on more than one occasion, but once I stop to think it through, I’m able to answer the question with a resounding “No!”
I remember being completely affronted (and rightly so) by a very conservative college professor who told me that the prime age for women to have children was 18. Of course, looking at a chart of fertility vs. age, I now see that he was correct, even if his suggestion that motherhood might be a more suitable choice than college was extremely misguided.
Looking back at my 18-year-old self, it’s hard to imagine what would have happened if that young woman had become a mother. Yes, I know lots of women do it, and I probably would have too, if I’d had to. But thinking about all the upheavals I’ve put myself through, I just cannot imagine that a child would have benefited from having me as an 18-year-old mother. Maybe (maybe) my supposed topnotch fertility at that age would have enabled me to conceive, but it would have been no guarantee of my suitability as a mother.
The truth is, I have absolutely no idea if I was fertile at 18. I assumed that, like many, many women, I would still be fertile at 34, and look how that turned out. There’s no way of knowing how long ago my body decided it wasn’t up to the task of reproducing, and now I’ll never know.
When I look back at the 18-34 years, they were rocky, but good. I had all kinds of experiences that I couldn’t have had if I’d had children to take care for. I went to college—twice—moved to another continent, traveled to many countries, did volunteer work, had fun but unsuitable relationships, changed careers (more than twice), and got to sample adventures not well-matched to motherhood. I certainly don’t feel as if I wasted those years. I wonder if I’d feel the same if I’d been raising children all those years.
So, no, I don’t feel as if I waited too long. I waited until I was ready, and while I waited, I was busy living my life to the fullest, and I don’t consider that wasted time at all.
At a reunion event, the keynote speaker summed up his message with “…everything we do is to make the world a better place for our children and grandchildren.”
And I thought, “Huh. So that means everything I do is to make the world a better place for your children and grandchildren.”
I haven’t said this out loud yet, but I’m waiting for an opportunity, perhaps the next time some unthinking person accuses me of being selfish for not having children. I’d like to point out that I am not having children then pawning them off on already overworked teachers and daycare providers, expecting them to do all the parenting. I am not polluting our parks with used diapers or filling the air with fumes from my super-size, family-friendly SUV. I am not expecting other people to suck it up when my toddler screams in an airplane, runs amok in a nice restaurant, or rubs berry stained fingers into their new sofa.
On the contrary, I am paying taxes to support schools that educate other people’s children. I contribute to fund-raisers for parks, boys’ and girls’ clubs, and organizations that provide services for needy families. I take note of when a friend looks fried and offer a few hours of babysitting—no strings attached—so she and her husband can take a long-overdue date night. I attend basketball games and dance recitals, and I encourage children of varying degrees of talent simply because they are precious to me. I reach out to elderly members of my family and extended family, well aware that they are lonely because their own children are otherwise occupied with caring for their children. I remember birthdays and anniversaries, with gifts, cards, and calls, and I zip my lip when a mommy friend complains to me that she’s too busy to remember mine.
Selfish? I don’t think so. I think childfree women, as a class, are the most un-selfish people on the planet.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is feeling a little feisty this week.
Some people assume that if you don’t have children you have nothing but time. Nowhere you have to be, no responsibilities, and certainly nothing important to get home for.
Which brings us to this week’s Whiny Wednesday topic:
Being taken advantage of at work because you don’t have kids
And, go…
By Lisa Manterfield
I heard this beautiful interview with poet Edward Hirsch on the topic of grief, and I wanted to share it with you here.
You may be wondering why an interview with a poet about the death of his son has a place here, but listen carefully to what he says about loss, mourning, and the process of healing. So much of what he has to say is what I’ve also learned about healing from loss.
“There is no right way to grieve, and you have to let people grieve in the way that they can. One of the things that happens to everyone who is grief-stricken, who has lost someone, is there comes a time when everyone else just wants you to get over it, but of course you don’t get over it. You get stronger; you try and live on; you endure; you change; but you don’t get over it. You carry it with you.”
In his 78-page elegy to his son, he writes that mourning is like carrying a bag of cement up a mountain at night. There is no clear path to follow, but when you look around you, you see everyone carrying their own bags of cement.
As a poet, Hirsch used his writing, not as a way to escape grief, but as a way to express what he couldn’t otherwise say. One of the most striking points he makes is on the topic of healing and how our society talks about the need to heal. But, he says, in order to heal, you have to be able to grieve first.
Most of us have faced a lack of understanding about the loss we’ve experienced because we didn’t get to be mothers. We have no place to express that loss, and without facing it and acknowledging it, we don’t get to grieve and we don’t get to heal.
If you’re struggling with loss, have you found a way to express your grief? Even if you’re not a writer, could putting your feelings down in words help you move through your grief? I know it has helped me through mine.
I’ll be teaching a workshop called “You’re Not Crazy; That’s Your Grief Acting Out” at the very first We Are Worthy Summit later this month. The summit will be packed with webinars, training, panel discussions, and live-chats and access is free. Look for more details coming soon.
Today is Good Friday, a holiday in many Christian-based religions that commemorates the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. In my faith tradition, it was a dark day of contemplation and prayer, one that was necessary before we received the promise and glory of Easter Sunday.
I wanted to incorporate something about old or new practices and traditions into my post this morning, but wasn’t sure what would be most relevant for us all here at LWB. So I thought it best to do a little online research, and here’s some of what I discovered:
It’s that last item that intrigued me. What is a “lovefeast”? In the 21st century, we have an understanding that a “feast” involves copious amounts of food and beverages, a large gathering of family and friends, and a celebratory air that might include music, dancing, and revelry. But there’s something about throwing in the “love” part that makes it sound (regrettably) a bit R-rated. That was not the case in the 18th century, when the Lovefeast held on Good Friday might have been as simple as servings of sweet buns and coffee, or even bread and water, with music and singing all designed to “strengthen the bonds and the spirit of harmony, goodwill, and congeniality, as well as to forgive past disputes and instead love one another.” (Read up on at the details here.)
Doesn’t the idea of that just warm your heart? It does mine, and it gets me thinking about how I might put together my own lovefeast. I imagine inviting dear friends to join me around a table for a thoughtfully prepared meal. I imagine seeing their delight as they greet each other with forgiveness and acceptance. I imagine a toast to friendships time-tested and new. I imagine feeling tears well in my eyes as I look around at the sweet souls beside and across from me and feeling so grateful for their presence in my life.
I also imagine you there. For although we are geographically all over the globe, making a sit-down dinner with all our LWB sisters impossible, when I am here with you, on these pages, I am strengthened by our spirit of harmony, goodwill, and congeniality. I release past hurts and look to the future. I feel accepted and loved.
And that feels so very, very good.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is counting her blessings today.
It’s the sister who every time she sees you asks, “So are you…?” The aunt who asks at every big holiday gathering, “When are you going to…?” Or the mother-in-law who passive-aggressively wonders out loud when “someone” is going to make her a grandmother. You know,
That one relative who just can’t let it go.
Got one? Tell us about him or her, then tell us what you’d like to say back.
By Lisa Manterfield
I’ve run this post several times over the years, but it remains one of the hottest topics and the question I’m most often often asked. If you’ve been a reader for while, think of this as a chance to look back and see how far you’ve come.
The question is: is it possible to ever get over being unable to have children?
I can’t see far enough ahead to know for sure if infertility and being childless is something I will ever “get over,” but based on another life-changing experience, here’s what I think:
When I was 15, my dad passed away suddenly and everything changed for me. I remember feeling immediately alienated from the other kids in school because I was no longer like them. I felt as if everyone was staring at me to see how I behaved, to see what someone with a dead dad looked like. People didn’t know what to say me, so many just said nothing. Several adults said variations of “This will make you grow up quickly” so I took them at their word and forged a new grown-up path.
For many years, my dad’s death defined me and I saw everything in my life through that filter. I felt angry and rebelled against people who had living parents, especially if they didn’t appreciate them. Unexpected things would trigger my grief and those old emotions would come at me from nowhere.
Over time, this eased. I went about my life and slowly, the fact that I didn’t have a dad no longer factored in. The trigger situations became less frequent and I thought about his death less and less.
It’s now been 30 years since he passed away. His death no longer directly colors my life. It is something I experienced a long time ago and found my way through. I think about him sometimes, but mostly with fondness and only occasionally do I think about the traumatic time around his death.
I have never forgotten my dad, nor will I ever forget him. His memory and my loss are woven into the fabric of my being, but don’t identify me as someone who has lost. I can say that I am “over” the loss of my dad, but I will never forget that he’s no longer here.
So, now if I go back over this story and replace the loss of my father with the loss of the children I never had, I imagine the story will unfold in much the same way. I’m already on the road to healing. Situations that cause my grief to flare up are very rare these days and the traumatic period of my life is blending into my library of memories. I am well on the way to being “over” infertility and the loss I experienced because of it, but it will always be a part of who I am and I don’t expect I will ever forget.
If you’re struggling to navigate the “getting over it” road, you’ll find lots of help and ideas in Life Without Baby: Surviving and Thriving When Motherhood Doesn’t Happen.
It’s on sale, along with my first book, I’m Taking My Eggs and Going Home: How One Woman Dared to Say No to Motherhood, for only $2.99 until the end of March.
~ "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."
