Talking about my freedom

I’ve had a draft sitting in my computer, based on a post written four years ago by Infertile Phoenix.  She talked about the thoughts that go through clients’ brains when she says she has no kids. The assumptions they make – their ignorance of her pain, her loss, her grief, her healing, her hard work. I could relate to that. 

More recently, it made me think of two interactions I have had travelling. The first was over ten years ago, with a younger couple. They asked if we had kids, quite publicly, in front of a big group. I was a bit surprised, as it wasn't something that the group had been talking about. I gave my standard answer, without embellishment. “No, we don’t.” This was not a time when I wanted to go into any details. The couple were themselves Not Kidding, as far as I recall. (We spent three days together, so if they had kids, they would have mentioned them!) I assumed they were childfree, purely because of the way they phrased the question and response. “But you’re happy, right?” was their almost aggressive response. 

But I don't want to make assumptions either. There could, of course, have been years of disappointment behind that question, an almost defiant reaction daring anyone to pity them, or us. Maybe even there was hope that if we were happy, they could be too. On the other hand, there could have been just complete disdain for the need or desire to have kids. My response was simply, “we’re here, aren’t we?” gesturing at our amazing surroundings. Of course, that downplayed my history. Did they deserve to hear my story? I don’t know. I didn’t know them well enough. But I wasn’t ready to share it there and then. And they didn't seem to want to know, or they would have asked the question differently.

Something similar happened much more recently. The question was asked, answered, and I got a simple response, “so you get to do things like this.” And then we changed the subject. There wasn’t any  judgement in that response. It was, in fact, a statement of fact. Whether they understood that while there was loss, there was also a silver lining, or whether they assumed that we had chosen our lives, so we could travel, wasn't clear. Maybe they were just being polite. But it was a couple on their honeymoon. Maybe they want children, maybe they don’t. They didn't mention it. It was a potentially teachable moment that I let pass. Should I have? I’m not sure. But equally, I was in a happy place, my kid-free/less status was the last thing on my mind. The question had the opportunity to spoil my equilibrium, my delight in where I was. So I dismissed it as quickly as I could.

I find it such a hard balance. I don’t want to ignore or downplay everything I’ve missed out on, and continue to miss out on. But I also don’t want to imply that there’s no joy in my life, because there is a lot of it. As Lori LL, a commenter here, says, “it’s BothAnd.” I’m still fretting over pointing out to a parent that their No Kidding daughter would be okay when I learned that she could not conceive. I still hope that my positivity didn't dismiss the losses that their daughter might be feeling. Even after all this time, I agonise over getting it right.

But let’s face it, I won’t always get it right. However much I want to, or feel that it gives me some purpose. And there’s rarely time (or inclination, on either side) to go into the issue. So some people get to hear about the cost of my freedom. Others get to just see that freedom in action. At the same time that I don’t want to hide my situation, and that I’m happy to publicise it, it is still a very personal thing. So I continue muddling through, taking it question by question, person by person, case by case, depending on my mood, surroundings, company, etc. I'm comfortable with that. I don't owe anyone an explanation. It works for me.  

What works for you?